


An Unusual Correspondence

by Ayehli



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Gothic Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 37,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25929724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayehli/pseuds/Ayehli
Summary: Nineteen-year-old Sarah Williams, recently returned home to her family estate after several years of convent education, pours out her most secret desires in letters that she throws into the fire. She never expected to receive a reply.
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 179
Kudos: 299





	1. Prologue

THE RT. HON. MARGARET WILLIAMS TO THE OFFICES OF DORCHESTER AND BINGHAM, LONDON

* * *

Dear Sirs,

I beg your pardon regarding the sudden nature of this correspondence, sent without proper introduction or go-between. I felt, however, that the urgency of the situation demanded swift action.

I was recently made aware through an acquaintance that you are in possession of a collection of letters from my daughter, the Viscountess Sarah Bolingbroke, to a certain gentleman. (I hesitate to use the word “gentleman,” and if the employees of Dorchester and Bingham have read the letters in question, there should be no mystery as to why.) I was also recently made aware, to my great disappointment, that D&B plans to publish these letters for the general public.

Though the particulars of my station and sex have, thankfully, sheltered me from the most gauche of this world’s literary excesses, I am not so sheltered as to be unaware that salacious correspondences, particularly those between proper young ladies and unscrupulous men, are a popular source of entertainment among the merchant and lower classes (and even, I am sad to see, among the peerage). D&B, being an institution that traffics in the sale of _popular_ entertainment, must surely follow these trends and publish that which is likely to be financially beneficial, and though I am loathe to admit it, I can see how these letters would seem to be a valuable acquisition in that regard. 

I urge you, then, to reconsider publication on the following grounds.

First, you must surely know of my daughter’s sad fate, and of the rumors of her state of mind during the period in which these letters were written. While I will not confirm or deny the details of those rumors, I will go so far as to say that the Viscountess was, shall we say, unwell for quite some time. These letters reflect the workings of a mind much burdened by fevers of both soul and body. My own perspective as her mother is naturally different from the general D&B readership, but reading her impassioned words I feel nothing but pity for the hysteria that so consumed her during this time. Surely your readers will have heard the rumors as well? Surely they will look askance at D&B for seeking to profit from the illness of a young woman who was, until that time, a devoted wife, a dutiful daughter, and a faithful servant of God? 

Second, I appeal to you as fathers of daughters who, I am sure, are also faithful servants of God, and for whom I am sure you desire only good marriages and quiet lives of devotion and domestic tranquility. I pray that you and your wives never suffer what I suffered during my daughter’s long illness, but should a similar malady befall your own children, I hope that you would also do everything in your power to protect them from becoming a public spectacle. 

Finally, I hesitate to write the following lines, for I abhor such direct confrontation, but surely you are aware of the numerous official and financial influences of not only the Williams Barony but also those of the Bolingbroke estate. Such titles and influence of course carry great responsibility and should never be wielded indiscriminately. The fact that I even mention them here must surely enlighten you as to the desperate circumstances I find myself in.

I am sympathetic to the conundrum of a business being asked to forego a profitable business opportunity, but I again implore you to reconsider. May God have mercy on your souls, even if He has long since forsaken my daughter’s. 

Yours respectfully,

The Rt. Hon. Margaret Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me! I've wanted to write an epistolary Labyfic in the style of Les Liaisons Dangereuses for a while now, so here we go. My knowledge of the complexities of Regency manners and hierarchies is fairly superficial, so apologies for inevitable mistakes regarding titles, customs, laws, etc.
> 
> These chapters may take a while to write & polish, but I have yet to leave a story unfinished, so we'll get to the end eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS TO (UNKNOWN)

* * *

My dearest,

What shall I call you, then, you to whom I will reveal all of my secrets to in this letter? Are you a dear and sisterly friend, like my beloved Louisa, who I have missed every day that I have spent away from the convent these past weeks? Or are you a _man_ , one who has secretly expressed affection for me in a hastily passed letter, as in the novels that Louisa secreted into the convent and that we would pore over when the sisters believed we were engaged in spiritual contemplation?

(Ah, just writing the word _man_ is truly shocking and fills me with a fire that I have never known before! Such it is that I could never write these words in my diary, for I am sure that Mother has a copy of the key to my desk drawer, though she would claim otherwise, and that she even bribes poor Abigail to relate further details of my daily movements, despite the fact that Mother is with me almost every day. So this letter will go into the fire, never to be seen again, though it will give me comfort to write it, for otherwise I fear that these unsaid words might flutter on the edge of my tongue until they burst forth at an inopportune moment.)

Very well, then, my dearest, you shall be my love, my only, _mon cœur_, and I shall tell you my desires in a way that I have been told I must never do with my own husband, who I have not yet met and whose name no one speaks to me, though surely he must exist, otherwise why would I have been taken from the convent so suddenly?

Perhaps not so suddenly. I am nineteen, after all, and I believe Mother had been counting on confirming my marriage before I turned eighteen, but this did not come to pass, and as usual I was not privy to the reasons why. The sisters were of no help either—they were keen to break their vows of silence to upbraid Louisa and I for any minor transgression, but not for any useful purpose.

(I should be ashamed to criticize the sisters so coarsely. But again, this letter will go into the fire, along with all its improper sentiments, burned away in a holy cleansing.)

 _Mon cœur_, do you think of me often? Do you kiss my letters and imagine my skin beneath your lips, wondering if it is my scent faint on the pages? 

I fear you will be shocked to hear me speak so frankly of desire, but when one spends one’s days secluded in a convent with only silence and prayer for company, it seems natural that pushed-down things might begin to rise up. Those afternoons poring over novels with Louisa were a revelation, both of us working so hard to keep our faces calm and unconcerned, as though we were reading scripture, when in fact the descriptions on those pages were enough to make any young lady gasp and clutch her skirts repeatedly. (Louisa, clever as she was, tore the pages from the book and carefully inserted them into our volumes of psalms, and if the sisters ever grew suspicious it was easy enough to turn to a more innocuous page.) 

What a wonder bodies are, I learned! How marvelous when their hearts pound, their skin grows hot and flushed, their mouths wet with hunger, their extremities tingle in anticipation of being touched. How funny it is that Mother sent me to this place so that my body and all its desires might be _contained_ , when in fact my time there only watered the seeds of curiosity in me until they burst forth in full flower.

(It is, of course, not funny at all. If Mother knew anything of my thoughts, or of what I sometimes do to myself at night, or of the things Louisa and I read in those novels, she would likely lock the door to my room and never let me out until my wedding day.)

I will confess that some of what was described in those novels I found truly shocking and not at all romantic, but kisses, ah, kisses are a marvel! So many different kinds of kisses—sudden, languorous, on the hand, the palm, the cheek, the mouth, sometimes only lips and sometimes with _tongues_. I suggested to Louisa that we try this art for ourselves, simply to see what it was like, and she was reluctant at first but then agreed. It was, sadly, not what I imagined, perhaps because we were both so uncertain. But then I caught upon the idea of closing my eyes and having her read aloud certain words from the novel to me, kissing my hand occasionally as she read them, and…my. I began to see why so many pages have been devoted to that particular art. 

Have you kissed many ladies, _mon cœur_? Will you be patient with your love and teach her all that you know, so that her kisses may bring you the same happiness that yours will surely bring her? 

Ah, dearest, surely I am too bold, even for a letter that none will see. But I know the fire will keep my secrets.

Do I dare, then, to speak of that which I have spoken to no one, not even the Almighty?

The memories are so faint. But they have become clearer, I believe, since all of these curiosities and desires awoke in me. And though anyone who listened would surely think me mad, for such things cannot, must not be real, must purely be a young girl’s hysterical fancy, I know in my heart that they did come to pass.

I was fifteen, and I had been left alone with Tobias when Mother, Father, and I had been scheduled to attend a party at the nearby Bolingbroke estate of Petworth. Mother had even had a new dress made for me for the occasion and had fussed over Abigail more than usual as she dressed me. But then it became clear that Tobias’ nursemaid was ill, coughing so terribly that Father ordered her confined to her room, and Father insisted that I stay with Tobias for the evening. I remember Mother and Father had a terrible row over it, Mother insisting that it was very important that I attend the party, though she would not say why, and father saying that whatever importance awaited me at Petworth would have to wait for another time, though it was paramount that Mother and Father show their faces, lest people talk. I was every bit as vexed as Mother, though I held my tongue, and in the end Father got his way and they headed off to Petworth in the carriage, leaving me alone in my finery and feeling quite the fool.

I fear I was very cross with Abigail, who certainly did not deserve my ire, and she retired early, somewhat tearful. I was left alone with my squalling brother, who would not quiet himself no matter how much I soothed him. Over time, I felt an unfamiliar sort of rage building in me—at Father, at Tobias, at being deprived of a night at Petworth—and I suddenly cried out, “I wish the goblins would come and take you away, right now!”

Oh, how horrified Mother would have been to hear those words! And how horrified was I when little Tobias vanished, as a puff of smoke, from my arms! 

I find that I cannot describe much of what came next. Anyone who heard it would surely think it a fever dream. But I know that I was…elsewhere, for some time. And I was braver than I thought I could be. And there were tests, and fearful things, but also helpful ones.

And there was a man…though I think he was not a man…whose eyes I still sometimes see, and whose voice perhaps inspired those same bodily flushes and tingles that were described so vividly in novels…

But what am I doing, dearest, describing another man to you! Forgive me.

Surely none of this was real, not the man, not the other place, and surely not the disappearance of Tobias, who is a healthy boy of five now and who I dote on like no other, having missed him terribly while I was at the convent. Who knows what strange fancies may inhabit the female mind. 

The candle grows weak, _mon cœur_, and so I must end this letter and then commit it to the fire. Perhaps I will also add some of the fresh herbs that Abigail often brings to brighten the scent of the room, if only to cleanse these impure thoughts more thoroughly, so to speak. But I am grateful for having written them.

Dreaming of your kiss, _mon cœur_, and of other things I dare not speak.

Yours, 

S.


	3. Chapter 3

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

What a pleasant surprise to receive correspondence from you after all these years. Though I must confess that, upon seeing your letter’s signature, I had hoped that you were writing to tell me that you had reconsidered my offer. Which may or may not have long since been rescinded. I prefer to keep you wondering. 

And by gods and mortals, what sweet words you weave to your intended! Were he not clearly the fancy of a young girl’s mind I feel I might be envious of the devotion you show to him. 

Yes, it is clear that I was not the desired recipient of your soulful musings. But think on this, dear Sarah—I _have_ received your letter, delivered to me as cleanly as one might receive missives through your mortal post. I suspect your thoughts of me, coupled with a few choice words in that letter and a careful selection of herbs burned together with the paper itself, might have hurried its journey through your fire to my waiting hand.

(It might also be related to the very land on which your family estate sits, but more on that at a later time.)

Ah, but I can hear your petulant words already, some variation on the theme of “I didn’t mean it.” Or perhaps now, mature as you are, you have put aside childish protestations and have learned that words and actions have power, and that intention matters little. 

How the years have changed you, it seems. Forgive me, but…a convent? You genuinely refused my offer of dreams beyond your wildest imaginings to cloister yourself with silent shades, beds of straw, and hard bread? Were you sent there as punishment, I wonder, or simply to be contained, in the way that, as you so astutely observed, all young ladies must eventually be contained in your world? 

And how fares your brother, pray tell? Thriving as much as you are in the dreariness of his mortal existence? I had wondered if you should remember all that befell you during those thirteen hours—most do not, or convince themselves that it was the stuff of dreams, as the mortal mind can only hold so much that clashes with its rigid adherence to laws and reason.

But of course, as you have surely realized by now, it was all real. 

So my voice inspired “bodily flushes,” did it? What a charming vocabulary you have for describing physical reactions that your confessor would surely decry as base. I would be flattered that my eyes and my voice have occupied a place in your mind for the past five mortal years, if I weren’t fairly certain that there was so little in the way of meaningful competition. 

Though it would appear congratulations are in order! You are to be married, it seems? Not “seems,” I suppose—of course you are to be married, it is only a question of when and to whom. Given the suddenness of your removal from the convent, I agree that the happy day must be approaching.

Is your heart aflutter with anticipation? Do you dream that all the things described in your beloved novels will finally become reality?

Or are you perhaps fearful, given that you know nothing of your intended? 

Fear not, dearest Sarah. Surely your betrothed will share your love of flowery words. Perhaps you shall even meet him in a field, on horseback, as he spirits you under a tree during a sudden torrential downpour. Perhaps he will wrap you in his cloak as you shiver and not lay an untoward finger on your exposed flesh, gentleman that he is.

Surely he will not be thrice your age, disdainful of your very presence, and prone to leave you alone for long periods of time after getting you with child. Truly, your parents would never be so cruel. 

(Ah, but I fear I have given you a glimpse of something that you perhaps do not wish yet to see. Forgive me. Immortality encourages a certain bluntness of speech, a thing that I know you and your contemporaries abhor.)

I should be delighted to hear from you again, precious thing. You may fear the scandal it would cause for a young lady to be corresponding with a man to whom she is not wed. To which I can only say…who is to find out, if your letters disappear into the fire as soon as they are written? And as you yourself said, I am perhaps not a man, not in the sense that your society understands the concept.

Loopholes, dearest Sarah. Seek and ye shall find. 

Yours eternal,

J.


	4. Chapter 4

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

A week passes, and still I hear nothing. 

Is the life of a lady of leisure so full of commitments that she does not have time even for a perfunctory response? I would not think that music lessons, needlepoint, and strolls around the grounds could fill one’s days so completely.

I think little of mortal customs, and yet I find myself perplexed—nay, offended—at this egregious breach of decorum. Surely letters must be answered, even when they are received in an unusual manner?

(I do look forward to hearing precisely _how_ my letters are being received. I took care to aim for a fireplace in close proximity to your presence, as much as magic can sense such things, for I realize the level of upheaval it might cause to your household should a letter such as mine, addressed to you, appear in any other part of the house.)

Perhaps you are still in shock. This is, I suppose, to be expected—when one’s life is filled with little more than mundane comings and goings I imagine a reply to a letter that you burned in a fire would, perhaps, bring on an attack of the vapors. I would urge you, then, to recall your time in my kingdom, and to remember that the world is in fact larger than you have been led to believe, and that things which seem impossible are quite possible. 

Or perhaps you have destroyed my first letter and convinced yourself that you imagined the entire event? The thought pains me. I do not have many opportunities to compose letters to mortal women, and that one was the result of a considerable amount of care and effort. 

Since you have yet no words of reply for me, I fear I must compose some myself.

‘Your Highness,

What joy the appearance of your letter brought me! What a ray of summer sunshine gleaming into an otherwise eternally gray winter! My heart, which has had little cause to become inflamed in the years since I ran your labyrinth, was set quite aflutter as I read your words. Prithee do write to me again, and tell me of the daily happenings in your magnificent kingdom, to which I have so longed to return. Truly, the dull days and nights I pass in this eternally bland world now shine with a slight patina, knowing that I have this correspondence with you to look forward to.’

Really, would it have taken you much time to compose lines such as these?

I shall choose to believe that you are simply…adjusting to this new consciousness, and that your epistolary skills will return along with your sense of equilibrium, perhaps in a day or two. I look forward to a lengthy missive at that time.

Yours eternal, 

J. 


	5. Chapter 5

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. You try my patience, and that is a dangerous thing to do.

Another week of silence? Really?

You force my hand. The goblin that will soon have taken up residence in your wardrobe will be returned to his rightful home…as soon as you have sent a reply. And please don’t think to send a short one. After such a long delay, you owe me much more than that.

I only hope your penmanship skills are such that you can complete the letter and send it off before my hyperactive subject makes short work of your petticoats. 

Really, this could all have been much simpler. 

I meant it when I told you not to defy me.

Yours eternal, 

J. 

_Postscript_

I should think that speaking or writing my name, picturing me in your mind, and tossing the letter into the fire with a bit of sage should do the trick. 


	6. Chapter 6

THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

I feel I must dispense with all pleasantries in the opening of this letter, a ‘breach of decorum’ that I would beg forgiveness for, if only you had not revealed yourself to be completely unworthy of such apologies. Trust that the weather is as usual for this time of year.

Do you have even the slightest inkling, sire, of the danger in which you place me and my family by writing these letters to me? Do you have any idea what would happen if these letters were discovered? Your 'loophole' is meaningless to the society I live in, I assure you. Would you really destroy the thing that I and my parents value so highly—my reputation? 

Dangers aside, I had thought that I could endure the indignities caused by the arrival of your letters—namely, an explosion of ash from my bedroom fireplace and a miraculously un-singed envelope delivered, projectile-like, across the floor. Dear Abigail happened to be in the room when your second letter arrived, and the poor girl was thrown into such a state that I had to give her a draught of Mother’s evening infusion, a small bottle of which I have hidden away for emergencies. Luckily I managed to hide the envelope while she was indisposed and convinced her that the small explosion must have been caused by an overly damp piece of kindling. 

I had thought, too, that secreting your letters in the hidden panel in the base of my wardrobe would be sufficient subterfuge (after two fireplace explosions you can see why I might have been wary of burning them). I had imagined that you would surely find writing unanswered letters tiresome and return to the much more exciting activities of your kingdom and its ‘patina’ that surely eclipses my own drab world.

But no, sire. Apparently you saw fit to go after my _petticoats_. 

Perhaps you think that a lady of my station simply has an endless supply of petticoats, and that finding not one but _two_ of them torn to ribbons and serving as a goblin’s breakfast would be of little consequence, but I assure you, good sire, you would be _wrong_. Mother keeps careful record of all household purchases, and I have not yet determined how to explain those missing petticoats to her. I only pray that she does not wrongly accuse Abigail or one of the other servants of theft.

Your goblin subject is currently locked in my wardrobe and I have moved all of my gowns and undergarments onto my bed on the pretext of airing them out. Thankfully the wretch seems content to endlessly chew the scraps of leather and metal that I spirited from the stables.

I would like him vanished as soon as this letter reaches you. Please.

But why should I _ask_ anything of you politely, when you have seen fit to _demand_ of me that which you have no right to even ask as a favor? 

Further, how dare you presume to know anything about my approaching nuptials, or about the man who is to be my husband? I may know nothing myself, but I trust that Mother and Father have chosen wisely. If he is, perhaps, not the dashing hero of my beloved novels, but at the very least a constant and steadfast gentleman with an even temperament, I shall be pleased. Any young lady of my station would be grateful to be married to such a man.

But why do I defend him to you? Do you genuinely believe yourself a legitimate competitor for my affections? You, who once, nay _multiple_ times, tried to _murder_ me? Who fed me poisoned fruit in the manner of a low-born rake who preys upon women when they are deprived of their wits?

Truly, your presumptuousness knows no bounds. 

It seems there is nothing about my present state that does not inspire a sneering curl of your lip (which I can visualize quite well, unfortunately). Yes, I received a convent education. What of it? Would you have looked more respectfully on me if I had attended Eton, an avenue of study that you must surely be aware is closed to me? Young ladies are educated in convents in my world, sire. I may have chafed at some aspects of the ‘containment’ therein, but I am grateful for what I learned.

You should perhaps also be grateful, for it is precisely my convent education that keeps the more colorful and specific insults to your person from finding purchase on these pages. 

You are correct that I may have written with more…impassioned words than usual for a young lady in my first letter, but surely you can understand that one’s private writings are different than those meant for others. And I truly believed that my first letter was meant for my eyes and my eyes alone. Truly, it breaks my heart to feel that this one avenue of unfettered expression has now been eternally soiled by your gaze.

And yes, your presence might have incited 'bodily flushes' at that time, but only because I was a young girl experiencing her first and perhaps only taste of something beyond her known world. Surely being thrust into a strange land where danger seemed to lurk round every corner would inspire palpitations in even the most level-headed of maidens, regardless of whether said maidens encountered a king with a rather piercing stare in a ballroom. 

It has all returned to me, as you can tell. Perhaps you are right and I did wish to believe that it had all been a dream. Surely you can understand why this was so, knowing how easily young ladies may be locked away in asylums for speaking of such things.

I do wonder about the welfare of my dear friends who so kindly helped me to reclaim my brother. If I would ask anything of you (and I believe I have the right to ask for something in return, given how uncouthly you have demanded my written attention), I would ask to know that they are well.

Tobias, I will have you know, is quite well. A bit of a terror, as children are wont to be, but I dote on him even more than his nursemaids, for reasons I should think would be obvious. If you ever lay a hand on him again I will find a way to flay you limb from limb. 

I should think this letter has gone on quite long enough to satisfy your demands. I will now seal it, intone your name, picture you as briefly as possible, and toss it into my fireplace with a handful of sage. I sincerely hope it lands in your bog. 

S.

_Postscript_

Do not write to me again.


	7. Chapter 7

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

Oh, you have exceeded my expectations profoundly. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you have taken a running leap over my expectations, sprinted ahead many leagues, and then circumnavigated the globe with such speed as to pass by my expectations multiple times in a single sprint. 

It seems that convent education has certainly not robbed you of your love of defiance.

You will forgive me, I’m sure, for writing again, though it goes against your wishes. Really, how could such a letter go unanswered? The very fates would weep. 

Regarding the welfare of my traitorous subjects that you call friends: they are all well. Hogwart blushed considerably when I mentioned that you had asked after him, the ogre gave one of his larger smiles, and the guardian of the bog-bridge insisted on enclosing a poem praising your virtue. Surely my transgression of writing a reply is made up for by the presence of a true knight’s poetry?

Intriguing, though, that you would request knowledge of your friends’ welfare but then ask me never to write to you again. One would almost think that you were of two minds on the subject.

  
I do apologize sincerely for the loss of your petticoats. I had thought a single goblin would simply leave a few tears and smudges, but clearly I underestimated my subjects’ appetites for fine linen. Rest assured that said goblin is, as you have surely realized by now, returned to my castle.

(I will reiterate that the goblin would never have found its way into your wardrobe if you had simply replied in a timely fashion.)

What fire burns in those pages you sent to me! Rather than contained, I believe convent education has _unleashed_ something in you, dearest Sarah. Truly, what did you study in those hallowed halls? Was the food laced with calamus? 

Your indignation brings back fond memories. I am glad to see that years spent confined either to a sacred institution or to your family’s estate have not cooled your spirit.

However, I take issue with being labeled an attempted _murderer_. If you insist that your racing heart in my ballroom was purely the result of being a young girl in her first adventure away from hearth and home, then you will believe me when I tell you that I would never have _murdered_ you. Maimed, perhaps. Brought to the very brink of death, most definitely. But only in service of my labyrinth’s larger purpose: to provide challenges that suit the runner. 

And the peach was only a gateway to a world that you yourself dreamed, dearest Sarah. I am hardly so desperate for female companionship as to addle a young girl’s mind in order to seduce her. Words and my ‘piercing stare’ are usually sufficient. 

I am glad to hear that your future husband is surely a paragon of virtue and esteem, despite the fact that you know nothing of him as yet. I myself should only hope to one day be described by my intended as ‘even-tempered.’ 

You have held back your insults, you say? I admit I am doubtful that a young lady could produce insults so colorful as to shock one such as I. A pity your convent education _does_ seem to bar you from that exercise, at least. I am all too eager to see what your pen would produce—if your mind is even capable of descending to such depths. I remain skeptical. 

(Ah, have I stirred your indignation even now? What a delight it is to picture you reading this letter, perhaps pacing the generous space of your bedroom, your hair piled high atop your head and covered [tragically] with a small lace cap, hints of curls peeking out from the sides. Your cheeks would be slightly flushed, your breath quickened, the firelight casting golden shadows over your skin. Your dress would, sadly, be dull compared to anything that you might have seen in my ballroom, but perhaps it would be a dark green, to bring out the green of your eyes, the stays trimming your waist and pushing certain parts of you upward just so…)

But now I fear I have made you blush again, for I know that in your world a man does not tell a young lady how and when he is picturing her alone in her room. Rest assured any man who has met you will have pictured you at some point, even if he does not speak openly of it. Is it not better to know the truth? 

I do hope this correspondence can continue. I believe I was mistaken to persuade you with a stick rather than a carrot, and so I will offer this carrot (or peach, if you will) instead: write to me again, and I will grant you one wish. Not a trickster’s bargain, not a contract with fine print, just a simple wish in return for a letter. Ask of me and you shall receive.

I can hear your protestations about the danger of correspondence between a young lady and a man she is not wed to, but really, is there so much to be concerned over when these letters are not delivered by post, when half of them remain in a world quite distant from your own, and when the other half are well-hidden in your wardrobe? Have a little trust in me, dearest Sarah. Have I ever led you astray? 

(I will, to the best of my ability, try to time the delivery of this letter so that your maid is not further traumatized by small explosions from the fireplace. Perhaps after the household is abed.)

Yours eternal, 

J. 


	8. Chapter 8

THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

I suppose I should not be shocked that you ignored my postscript and wrote again. Perhaps I should have phrased my request differently—using a word that beings with ‘w’—but by now I know the dangers of uttering, or perhaps even writing that word without careful thought. 

I am relieved, at least, that the relative lateness of this letter did not result in another goblin in my wardrobe. Though I find it odd to speak of lateness, given that, as you are so keen to remind me, you are a being who has little concern for time. 

It is hardly necessary that I have a reason for being tardy in my reply—nay, I thought not to reply at all, but I cannot yet trust that you will not wreak some further mischief on my clothing or my person, this time perhaps in a manner that might upset other members of the household. Poor Abigail is already fragile from her last encounter with an exploding fireplace, and Mother’s nerves are never at their best when father is home, which he has been for over a week now (quite longer than usual). 

I explain this only so that you know that I write you out of filial obligation, not desire. 

I do hope that you will thank Sir Didymus for his poem, it was lovely. I have enclosed one of my own, which I will confess is much borrowed from Chaucer, though I inserted a few details about my dear friend’s particular brand of gallantry, and a brief ode to his loyal steed. 

As to the reason for my tardiness…suffice it to say that there have been many goings-on of late. I wonder how much I should relate to you. I nearly choked on my tea when I read your “have a little trust in me,” because really, sire, what reason in the known world (and in yours) would I have to trust you? And as to whether or not you have ever led me “astray”…did you not send Hoggle after me specifically to lead me back to the beginning of the labyrinth, and then force him to give me that peach? 

I wonder if old age has made your memory feeble, or if you simply lie whenever it suits you.

It is of no consequence, I suspect. I have more pressing concerns at the moment, and as Mother seems to have taken a vow of silence that put the nuns to shame, Father has never spoken a word to me that wasn’t a stern admonishment, and poor Abigail might find herself sacked if she revealed anything she was not supposed to, I find myself relaying my thoughts to you.

Again, do not presume that you are ‘chosen.’ You are a last resort.

(You picture me reading your letters, do you? I can picture you as well, you know. Languishing on that filthy throne [do not think the sorry state of your throne room went unnoticed], eternally bored with the goings-on of your inconsequential kingdom, wondering which mortal life you might upend for your own amusement. Your expression is eternally smug, fingers tapping your leather-clad sleeve. Perhaps your eyebrows rise occasionally as you read my words. I would relish, if anything, the opportunity to turn my nose up at you in person, to wipe that smugness off of your face.)

But now I surely have your attention, wondering what these ‘pressing concerns’ of mine are. I will give in to my compassionate side and keep you waiting no more.

In short, I am to meet my future husband in two days. 

Perhaps that, at least, will put an end to your aggressive pursuit via these letters? Surely once I am a settled wife with a brood of children I will be less interesting prospect to you than a young girl full of dreams and fancies. 

Or perhaps you are one who enjoys the sorts of challenges that come in pursuing a married lady, in which case I pity you.

I am to be a Viscountess, it seems. My intended is Roger Bolingbroke, heir to the Bolingbroke fortune, who has grown up at Petworth estate, though he has spent the last two years commanding a regiment in Newfoundland.

Beyond that, frustratingly, I know nothing. I do not have a miniature of his face, I do not know his age, I do not know why he has left his regiment, I do not know how his family feels about the marriage (though I assume that they are not entirely opposed to it). I do not know his favorite foods, or whether he likes music or poetry, or whether he enjoys fox hunting (I sincerely hope not). Mother told me only that we would be officially engaged in two days, that I would meet him then, and that it was unseemly for me to ask so many questions, for all would be revealed in good time. 

How can she speak of this as if I were picking out a dress, or choosing whether to have lamb or duck for Christmas dinner? Has she forgotten the anticipation she must have felt upon marrying my father? 

(Thinking on my father’s countenance, I realize that I would not be surprised if her girlish anticipation quickly gave way to disappointment, and perhaps that is why she will not give me more than the most basic fuel for speculation.)

Honestly, though one would think this news would have primacy in my mind, I am in truth more preoccupied with Tilly, the Skye terrier who has been Mother’s companion since before I left for the convent. I have never liked Tilly—she bit me several times as a child and Mother did not believe me when I told her, and even now I feel that she likes and trusts no one in the house but Mother. Nonetheless, as Mother was indisposed several days ago I took it upon myself to bring Tilly along for an afternoon constitutional on the grounds. Perhaps because it was quite windy, my cap and kerchief were blowing all around my face, so as we passed the ruin folly I did not see Tilly slip and fall down into the ha-ha! I should have remembered that Tilly is getting on in years and does not have the balance and dexterity she once did. She howled most piteously, and I summoned the footman as quickly as possible to help me haul her up, but as yet she is still whimpering and it seems her leg might be fractured. Mother is beside herself, and I fear that she thinks I did it on purpose, knowing my unfortunate history with the dog.

I know how foolish it is of me to wish for anything from you, even when you claim to offer it without obligation (nay, I feel I should be _more_ suspicious of anything from you that claims to be offered without obligation). Nothing comes freely in your world. And yet…Tilly is everything to my mother, who I begin to realize has so little.

So then, Your Highness, if you will truly grant me one wish, I ask you not for baubles or a knight in shining armor or fripperies and riches beyond my wildest dreams, as I am sure you assumed I would. I only wish that you would make Tilly well again. 

Write again, if you must, or do not. Contrary to what you believe, I do not think the fates concern themselves much with mere mortals, or with mere mortals and…whatever it is you are.

S.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Trying to do one or two chapters a week, but work commitments might make that difficult sometimes.
> 
> A ha-ha is a little trench built into the grass in large gardens or estates, both for the purpose of keeping livestock out / in and presenting an uninterrupted view of the scenery. They were particularly popular in English gardens and estates during the 18th & 19th centuries. This was also the period when "ruin follies," structures made to look like ruined castles or hovels, often appeared in English landscape gardens. (Correct me if I'm getting the details wrong, most of my knowledge of both ha-has and ruin follies comes from the Tom Stoppard play Arcadia and a bit of Googling.)


	9. Chapter 9

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

Truly, I will never understand mortal love for four-legged creatures that are not useful as beasts of burden. Though given that I have lived much of my existence surrounded by vermin of one kind or another, I suppose I am naturally inclined to be unsympathetic to the pain of dogs.

That said, your wish was certainly…unexpected. Not at all the wish of the wide-eyed girl who veritably stamped her foot in frustration at life’s unfairness, or even the girl who wrote that initial letter to an imaginary intended.

Where is that girl now, I wonder? I confess that I miss her voice already. Might I be so fortunate to hear it again one day, if this correspondence continues? 

(This is not at all to diminish the spark of vitality I feel upon reading your more defiant words—I sense those lightly scathing phrases from your last letter are only ripples on a deep lake. I simply express sorrow that the young lady I met in your first letter, the one who wrote of desire and love with unfettered freedom, seems to have vanished.) 

But perhaps her voice was never meant for my ears, or for anyone’s ears, really. Perhaps she is a jewel that gleams brighter for being hidden.

Or perhaps news of the reality of your impending nuptials has simply destroyed any sense of whimsy you once possessed, dearest Sarah. I cannot imagine why it would be ‘unseemly’ to ask questions about your future spouse…unless said spouse is a truly disappointing specimen, one who might be described as “steadfast” and “firm” to distract from his lackluster appearance. Or, in your own words, “even-tempered.” 

If your own father is, as I infer from your letter, rarely at home, perhaps you will be so fortunate as to have a husband who leaves you to your needlepoint for long periods of time. 

Surely you must be curious about what your wedding night has in store for you, and if it will bear any resemblance to the scenes described in those illicit novels that you and your dear friend pored over in the convent? If your mother has taken a vow of silence, why not ask me? I assure you I am quite well-versed in such matters. I will even speak of them using polite language, so as not to inflame your delicate sensibilities. 

Ah, but perhaps you do not need polite language, if you are so bold as to picture me on my throne? Does your mind’s eye travel over every inch of me, I wonder? Does it linger on the amulet around my neck, the way it contrasts with the pale color of my skin? Do you wonder what parts of me are smooth, what parts rough? 

I fear now it is I who will blush, imagining your eyes roving over me so. 

I suspect the wedding itself will be a disappointment to you, based on my knowledge of mortal wedding customs. Would that you could see what a joining looks like in my world! Fires burning all night, dancing under a canopy of stars, food and drink that would leave mortal senses reeling with a single taste. All of it lasting for days, or until all parties fall into exhausted heaps of gasps and laughter.

(It will not surprise you, I think, to know that my kind have very different ideas surrounding chastity and the role of the marriage bed, and what goes on at one of our joinings would surely give you cause to faint. So I will not speak of it, overburdened as you already are with worries for your mother’s four-legged companion.)

It seems rather appropriate that the beast met its unfortunate fate in your ha-ha. Do you know, I wonder, what used to stand on that patch of ground? Or why the townspeople have a particularly tight-lipped smile when they speak of your father, even if they are reluctant to speak ill of him directly? 

It is of little consequence to you, I suspect. 

You will forgive me if I do not include yet another of the bog-bridge guardian’s poems in this letter, though he was eager to send one—it seems rather beneath my dignity to serve as messenger between a young lady and a would-be knight. Rest assured that he was quite moved by your poem (I did not tell him that much of it was taken from Chaucer), and his loyal steed might also have been touched by your praise. 

Regarding your mother’s beloved companion—I hope you have not disposed of the envelope in which you found this letter, for inside it you will find a small black pearl. Not a pearl at all, actually—its name is long and cannot be written with your letters. Handle it carefully, and wash your hands thoroughly after you do so. Place it in a small bowl of warm water, let it dissolve, and give it to the little creature to drink. He will be in a state of discomfort for a moment, but it will pass, I assure you. 

(I can already sense your suspicion, but really, what could I possibly have to gain by poisoning your mother’s pet?)

I do hope you will write again. I have more to offer you, I think, than you realize. 

Yours eternal,

J. 


	10. Chapter 10

THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

If my temperament in this letter seems a trifle less…controlled than in my previous correspondence, please understand that it is because 1) the dog is in fact, miraculously, healed, and 2) far too many things of consequence have occurred in the last several days that I should be able to maintain a calm state of mind. For years I lived in a world where nothing happened and I expected nothing to happen, and now my world is nothing but happenings. It is not…entirely unwelcome, I will confess, but it is nonetheless trying.

I did not, in fact, ever think that you would try to poison Tilly, if only because, scoundrel though you may be, a lack of intelligence is not one of your faults. But even having watched letters appear suddenly out of the flames in my fireplace, even having dealt with a goblin consuming my petticoats, some small part of me still, perhaps, wondered whether all of this was some sort of fever dream.

Those illusions are entirely gone now, because I have seen magic.

I must say that “discomfort” was a bit of an understatement, however. After deciding to follow your instructions, I waited until Mother was having a nap, which thankfully happened to coincide with Abigail’s visit to her family in town. I took Tilly from her little bed in Mother’s room, and thankfully the poor creature was perhaps so weary from distress that she did not howl or try to bite me. As instructed, I mixed the little black pearl with water, whereupon the water turned a strange color and a little mist rose off of the surface. I held the liquid to Tilly’s lips, fearful that she would not drink, but she lapped it up as eagerly as she would a bowl of fresh-cut beef.

But then, what a sight!

The poor creature’s body twisted and turned in ways that were most unnatural, and she let out a keening that I felt sure would wake Mother. Her fur seemed to change color, and then change back, and at some points I could swear that she became insubstantial, almost as if she were moving between this world and the afterlife. How long this went on, I cannot say, only that it seemed an eternity.

But then, finally, she stopped her twisting and turning and lay still, her breathing even. And then—this may have been most miraculous of all—she awoke, looked at me with loving eyes, and began to yip happily and jump all over my skirts, her leg completely healed, treating me for all the world as if I were her beloved companion and not the wretched enemy she has always imagined me to be. 

(I am still at a loss as to what to do with this new perspective on the world, a world in which magic exists. Where I once thought there was only order and predictability there is now an eternal potential for chaos. I do not understand how one lives with such knowledge.)

It was at the moment of Tilly’s jubilant recovery that Mother, perhaps awakened by her exuberance, entered my bedroom. At first she looked on me with suspicion, but then, seeing Tilly in such good spirits, immediately scooped her up into her arms and wept for joy. Tilly also showered Mother’s face with kisses, and the sight was altogether so moving that I momentarily forgot about the strangeness that made it possible. 

Mother asked me how Tilly became well again, and I put on my most convincingly innocent face and said that I’d only given her a bowl of fresh water. But mother has always seen through me, and perhaps she noticed the strange smell that lingered in the air, or the tremble of my lip when I spoke, for she eyed me carefully up and down, but in the end chose not to question her good fortune and simply said that Tilly’s recovery was “like magic.” 

(Tobias, incidentally, was also overjoyed to have his favorite playmate returned to him. Tilly really did love everyone in the house save me, at least until I became her actual savior.)

All of this, though, led me to dwell on your words about the ha-ha even further. What possible connection could that patch of land have to a general mood against my father among the townspeople? I have never known anyone to speak ill of him, but I have been away long, and was never prone to asking questions before now.

Feeling bold, and also perhaps sensing that I was momentarily back in Mother’s good graces, I tried to ask her as indifferently as possible if there was anything special about the land near the ha-ha and the ruin folly, not mentioning anything about hostility from the townspeople. My, how her eyes snapped to attention! She immediately demanded to know what I’d heard and from whom, with her suspicions first falling on poor Abigail. I quickly assured her that no, no one had told me anything, only that I had had…a strange feeling walking that patch of land, and of course poor Tilly had suffered injury there, hence I had begun to wonder if ill omens surrounded the place. After a moment’s pause, Mother said, with a surprising amount of heat, “Perhaps you should ask your father.”

Truly, I was stunned, for my mother has never suggested that I ask my father anything. Truly, since I was a small child she has generally told me to leave my father alone whenever I have wanted to be near him or converse with him, and he has never made himself welcoming toward me. Again, perhaps it was the momentary goodwill engendered by Tilly’s recovery that made Mother bear her feelings to me so plainly.

What was this mystery, then? I knew I could not wait for you to give me an answer—and who knows if you would have readily given one anyway without asking for something in return. Perhaps my first-born child. 

And so, feeling bold, and with Mother and Tobias wholly distracted by Tilly, I made my way to my father’s study, a room that I realized I had never once entered. My heart rightly pounded in my breast as I knocked on the door, but I did so, and heard a faint “enter” in response.

My father did not look up at first, perhaps presuming that I was a maid bringing afternoon tea. When he did look up, he blinked as if he’d seen a ghost, and then his expression settled into something between surprise and annoyance. I could not help but notice how the shape of his eyebrows and chin resembled mine, though his were surely always drawn into a more stern expression. I wondered, suddenly, if this was why Mother always seemed to favor Tobias, who has always resembled her more than Father.

“Yes?” my father said.

I cleared my throat and made some effort at asking after his health and commenting on the weather, to which he responded with some other meaningless pleasantry, clearly eager for me to state my purpose. I thought quickly and told him that, as I was soon to be married, and would be navigating the waters of polite society on my own, that I felt compelled to ask if anything strange had happened near the ha-ha and the ruin folly. 

Just as Mother had, Father was immediately at attention. He actually dropped the quill he had been writing with, though he quickly picked it up again and set it in its inkwell, trying to recover some measure of calm. He folded his hands in front of him on his desk and asked me (trying very hard, I think, not to raise his voice) if I had been listening to servant gossip. I told him no and repeated what I’d said to Mother about an ill feeling when I walked round the place, though I added that if there _was_ a scandal in our past, I felt I should know the facts before I left our home to be married. 

At this point he _did_ rather lose his calm a bit and actually rose to his feet. He told me that there were no “scandals” whatsoever associated with our family and there never would be, and that stories about the land near the ha-ha were nothing but ignorant superstition, and if fools chose to believe foolish things and look at him with a hostile eye, it was no concern of his. Further, my own marriage to the Viscount Bolingbroke would surely help to remedy this baseless hostility, given the high standing of that family, and I should feel blessed to be able to serve such a noble purpose. Finally, as I was due to meet my intended the very next day, I should not be concerning myself with such frivolities, lest they make me appear less than charming or warm to my future husband. 

I do believe these were more words than my father has spoken to me at one time since I was born. 

(I cannot forget the rage in his eyes. It smoldered just beneath the surface, and I fear another uncareful word from my lips might have ignited it.) 

And then, of course, I was left with more questions than answers, and indeed quite out of sorts in the carriage the next morning as we made the trip to Petworth, though I did my best to hide it.

But the story of meeting my fiance must needs wait for another letter, for I promised Mother that I would join her on a walk around the grounds with Tobias and Tilly. 

In haste,

S.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah had quite a bit more to say in this particular letter, but it was getting long, so I'm dividing it into two parts. More soon!


	11. Chapter 11

THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

I write to you now very late in the evening, when I believe most of the house to be abed. And yet I cannot even begin with a description of meeting my fiance (not that I suspect you are eager to hear of it), because the happenings continue.

As soon as I had posted (is this the term to use?) my previous letter, I joined Mother and Tilly (carefully leashed), as well as Tobias in his pram for a walk around the grounds. The weather was sunny and calm, a rare gift, and Tobias was cheerful and laughing as we pushed him. Mother, too, was in strangely good spirits, perhaps owing to Tilly’s recovery. She even took my hand, something she had not done since I was a child.

When we reached the ruin folly she took Tobias out of the pram and let him run about, keeping a careful eye so that he would not meet the same fate as Tilly in the ha-ha. I confess that, remembering your words and the strange attitudes of both Mother and Father, I found myself closing my eyes and inhaling the very scent of the wind, wondering if it might give some clue as to why this little patch of land was important. And I might have imagined it, but I could swear that I felt a strange…tingle in the air, as of breath on my skin, or the faintest flicker of electricity. I kept my eyes closed and let the feeling move through me, not caring if I appeared odd.

But something much odder greeted me when I opened my eyes.

Mother was kneeling on the ground, her skirts splayed around her, her hand pressed to the earth beneath her feet. She seemed to be shaking, and when I looked closer I saw that she was weeping quietly. And then her fingers dug into the earth and she pulled a clump of loam and grass right out of it, leaving a hole, and pulled the earth closer to her face. She inhaled deeply, and then wept even harder.

I was deeply unsettled by this behavior, but seeing that she was in distress, though I knew not the cause, I knelt down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She leaned against me slightly and turned her face against the sleeve of my dress, so that I could feel the warmth of her tears through the fabric. I kept a close eye on Tobias and Tilly the whole time, who frolicked nearby without a care in the world. 

After some time, Mother let the little clump of earth drop, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes and her hands, and took several deep breaths to compose herself. I dared not ask what had caused this display for fear of closing a door that had now been opened barely a sliver. So I simply watched her play in the grass with Tilly and Tobias, and when we turned back toward the house she took my hand in hers again. 

I did not realize how much I had missed that affection.

Soon after we returned I heard raised voices coming from my father’s study, and though I feared lingering close enough to be caught eavesdropping I did overhear Father accusing Mother of telling me things that she shouldn’t have. Mother was mostly quiet, with father doing most of the yelling—I heard words like “superstition” and “shame.” At some point Father continued yelling but Mother left the study and slammed the door behind her, and I scurried into my own bedroom so that neither of them would see me in the hallway.

What is this family of mine that has come to resemble the ones in novels, rather than the simple and uninteresting one I thought I knew? 

Needless to say the carriage ride to Petworth the next morning was rather tense. Mother and I sat on one side, with Father on the other, and though he made a point to gaze out the window and not look at either of us, when his eyes did alight on our side of the carriage I felt that he was daring us to say anything against him. Mother seemed to have returned to her usual state of meekness in his presence and kept her head lowered, her gloved hands folded in her lap. But when Father’s eyes were elsewhere she carefully took my hand and squeezed it, holding it for the rest of the carriage ride, both our hands concealed in the folds of our skirts. 

Petworth was decidedly grander than our own estate, with a longer road leading up to the main house and carefully manicured lawns dotted with colorful flowers. Multiple servants greeted us and took care of our horses, and then we were led into a very beautifully decorated drawing room hung with tapestries and paintings that made me realize just how severe our own drawing room was. (Father was noticeably unimpressed with the decorations—despite having spent so little time in his presence I can still sense when he is in a foul mood, which is most of the time.)

The next few minutes are a bit muddled in my mind—I remember that Lord and Lady Bolingbroke came to greet us and were surprisingly more jolly than I had expected, which seemed to please Mother and annoy Father. There was tea and little cakes that I could barely eat for my nervousness.

And then suddenly Roger was there, and there were formal introductions on both sides, and before I realized it we had been left alone together.

It struck me in that moment that I had never in my life been alone with a man who was not my father. (Except you, and we have established that you are not quite a man.)

Roger is…attractive. Is it frivolous of me to notice this? He is dark-haired like his father, with a narrow face, full but not overly thick brows, a small beard, and fair skin. His frame is slight, but I suppose this is to be expected when one is encamped with a regiment in a remote location for months at a time. 

I smiled at him and curtsied once we were alone. He seemed to be trying very hard to smile back but could not quite manage it. I noticed a thin sheen of sweat at the top of his brow.

I sat on one end of the divan and he on the other, both of us with our hands folded, almost as if we were posing for a painting. The silence was long and uncertain.

“Are you enjoying your time at home with your family?” I finally asked him.

He flinched slightly, as if the sound of my voice had surprised him. He nodded quickly and said something about needing to return within the week. His voice was so quiet I had to lean forward in order to hear him. 

“So soon!” I said. “I suppose it is to be expected, you carry many responsibilities on your shoulders.” 

He nodded. And then, seemingly with great effort, he asked me how I found life at home after spending years in a convent, which thankfully gave me an excuse to speak for a good several minutes, and he seemed content to listen. As I spoke I moved, ever so cautiously, closer to him, for it felt strange to be seated so far away from the man who was to be my husband.

After a few more minutes of pleasantries he abruptly stood and commented on how he was looking forward to the wedding, which would take place in less than a week. This was a surprise to me, though I tried not to show it on my face—less than a week? But I suppose haste was necessary, given his responsibilities to his regiment.

I smiled at him and told him that I was also looking forward to the wedding. And then, because we were still alone and I was perhaps feeling emboldened after the events of the day before, I reached out to clasp his hand.

You would have thought that he had been struck by a viper! He almost hissed as he pulled back from me, and then he was immediately embarrassed and tried to cover his reaction with a cough, but I had seen the look of horror in his eyes. Right at that moment our parents returned, continuing with some ordinary conversation they had been having in the garden, and thus the moment passed.

What sort of man is this? Is he so repulsed by his future wife that he would draw back from her touch as if she were a snake? Yet again I have more questions than answers, and I fear Mother will be of no help to me. 

And so it seems I will, in fact, turn to you for answers as to the question of relations between men and women, only because I have no other options.

I do feel I must correct you on one thing, sir—I am not so unknowing or easily shocked as you might think when it comes to matters of the flesh. In addition to the novels that Louisa and I read so thoroughly, I have also seen more than a few of Mr. Rowlandson’s prints, which feature quite detailed renderings of anatomy both male and female, though the situations that the subjects find themselves in seem somewhat removed from the marriage bed. I doubt, for example, that my husband will wish to blow a trumpet between my legs. But I am at least aware of which appendages are expected to fit where, though how any of this is supposed to be pleasurable remains a mystery. It all sounds rather crude, to be honest. Admittedly my favorite sections of the novels that I read with Louisa were the ones that feature a great deal of kissing and touching above the neck. I remain unconvinced that much that is pleasurable can happen below it. 

But, given that my future husband might have interest in parts of me other than my face and neck, and given that I have less than a week to prepare myself for my wedding night, I felt compelled to seek out Mother and ask her some very basic questions. Namely, how does one behave on one’s wedding night? Is there speaking? Do we simply remove our clothing in the dark and commence the act? Will my husband expect me to be knowledgeable about certain things, or is it better if I feign ignorance? 

Mother was quiet for a long time. We were seated in the drawing room with Tilly at our feet (she is oddly affectionate with me now to the point that she cries piteously when I am away for long periods—I do not know what she shall do when I am gone from the house for good). To my question of what I should do and what I should know, Mother only patted my hand and said, “You just keep still.” 

This was not an entirely helpful answer, and so I immediately asked Mother more questions and even thought to tell her of Roger’s strange reaction when I tried to touch his hand, but she only put a finger to my lips and shushed me. She then told me that she had worked very hard to secure me a husband who was, above all things, _kind_ , and that though other offers had been made, and she had been forced to stand her ground with Father on numerous occasions, it was she who had finally insisted on Roger. And that while many things about Roger might still be a mystery to me, I could rest assured that he would never hurt me, in the marriage bed or otherwise. 

“You will have what I did not,” she whispered.

And there was such fierceness in those words, but also a deep sadness that made me recall the way she had clutched the earth and fallen to her knees weeping for some loss that I am still not privy to, but that must surely have pained her more than I can ever fathom.

And now it is again late at night, and I find myself writing these words by the light of a dying candle, the house sleeping and full of secrets around me. And surely I will regret what I am about to ask, for I know that nothing you give comes without something demanded in return, but it seems that yes, you do, perhaps, have more to offer me than I realized.

First—what is the curse that lies upon that little patch of land, and why does it grieve my mother so to be near it?

Second—and again I ask this only because I have absolutely no one else to ask, and the dread of the unknown is truly driving me mad—what should I expect on my wedding night? More specifically, as someone who, I believe, finds the female form attractive, is there some way to beguile my husband so that he will not shrink from my touch? Should I play the coquette? Should I be meek? Should I bare my body to him, or should I hide it? What does a woman do in such a situation? I know that a mortal coupling must seem dull compared to the wild and boisterous goings-on that make up a joining in your world, but please, lower yourself to the earth for a brief moment to advise me.

Before you demand something of me in return, perhaps I will make an offer of my own. Answer my questions…and I will consider giving you another glimpse of that girl who wrote to you, whose voice you miss. In truth, that girl’s voice was never _for_ you, or for anyone, really, but myself and an imaginary intended. But it gave me happiness to momentarily live in her world, and perhaps I might return to it now and again, both for my own pleasure and for yours.

Perhaps I am mad to ask for anything from a Goblin King. But it seems the world that I knew has gone mad right along with me. 

Sincerely,

S. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! I just realized that in Sarah’s first letter she said that Bolingbroke estate was called Apsley, but I’ve been calling it Petworth, so Petworth it is, went back and edited. Also, good heavens, I did NOT intend for this plot to get as twisty-turny as it has, but I guess the gods heard me when I said I wanted to write a Gothic romance, so bring on the buried secrets, tragic backstories, and hidden yearnings. 
> 
> Credit to Caryl Churchill’s play Cloud Nine for the line “You just keep still,” which is followed by the lines “And is it enjoyable?” / “Ellen, you were not put on this earth to enjoy yourself!”


	12. Chapter 12

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

I feel I should keep a catalogue of the more colorful monikers that you have thus far attached to me. Today’s entry shall be “scoundrel,” which I quite like the sound of (better than “murderer,” at least). 

I must also respond to words from your first letter in this pair—I would never, ever _ask_ or even _demand_ your first-born child in return for any of my gifts. Or your second-born, for that matter. In all my years of existence I have never stolen or demanded any children—I have only taken what was offered freely to me. Though I begin to suspect that it comforts you to paint me as a lowborn trickster, I must draw the line at being painted as a child-thief. 

But I find I cannot remain cross after the bounty of intriguing information you have provided in your letters. And as I am feeling generous, I will tell you what I know of that little patch of land at the edge of your estate.

I assume you know of faerie trees?

Some stories will tell you that they are gateways between worlds. Some will tell you that they are simply places where the faerie folk gather. Some will tell you that the tree’s roots and flowers are suffused with magic, and will beguile anyone who sniffs or eats them.

All of these tales have a grain of truth to them, though none tell quite the entire story. 

My own knowledge of what happened to a certain faerie tree came to me in fragments, through whispers that passed through the many corners of my world, from human mouths and fae, from those who lived in one world or the other or often passed between them. Much is hearsay, but some is trustworthy.

I know one thing for certain—a faerie tree had grown for many hundreds of years just outside the boundaries of your family’s estate. It was cut down just before you were born.

Not only cut down, I should say. The very roots of the tree were ripped from the ground, and the whole tree was cut into many pieces before being hauled away. I have heard—though this part is hearsay—that the ground might have even been poisoned before it was covered over with grass. 

Do you know what it is to cut down a faerie tree? Do you know the horror that the townspeople experienced when they witnessed its culling? Do you know the deep shame that the men who were forced to do the chopping must have felt? 

And surely you understand by now who it was that ordered the cutting down of the tree? 

I confess that for many years I had believed that it was done out of simple arrogance—your father wanted to expand the boundaries of his estate and did not care for the view being obstructed by a single tree. Mortal men are nothing if not predictable in their habits of destruction in the name of proclaiming themselves one step higher on life’s ladder. And I will confess that I know something of arrogance, particularly when it comes to believing oneself above the superstitions and concerns of the common folk.

But now…I wonder. Would your father have poisoned the well so thoroughly only out of vanity? Knowing what I know of mortals and the sacred light in which they view faerie trees, I do not doubt that his act has haunted your family for years. If I were to guess, I would say that few guests come to call or invite you to their soirees, other than this family to whom you are now betrothed. I would imagine your family struggles even to hire townspeople for any sort of simple task, even when the compensation is generous. And I wonder how many families rejected even a meeting to discuss a possible match between you and one of their sons…

All of that for vanity? No, I think not. And hearing your story of your mother’s behavior, I realize now that I, perhaps, was too quick to assess the motivations for this heinous crime as simple arrogance. 

I believe the rest of the mystery is for you to solve, dearest Sarah. You seem to be remarkably adept at opening doors that were once closed to you. 

But as to your other question…where to begin?

Perhaps I will start with your mother’s bizarre advice to “keep still.” I assure you that any coupling involving complete stillness from one of the parties involved will hardly be pleasurable for either one. But mortals have always had strange ideas about coupling, so perhaps this is the advice that all mothers give their children.

But I am actually more intrigued as to the reaction of your very average-sounding fiance. (Attractive, you say? I wonder what your basis for comparison is.) Something is…very much amiss here, I believe.

The most obvious answer is that your Viscount prefers the company of men, but this would hardly explain such a _violent_ reaction. More likely he would meet your touch with polite indifference. So I think this mystery, too, is more complex.

Rest assured, dearest Sarah, that there is nothing in your countenance that would make a man spring back in horror. It is, rather, the sort of countenance that draws men _in_. Though this might be only because you have not yet assailed them with the venom that is known to spring forth from your tongue. That, truly, could cause a weaker man to jump back as if stung. 

And so I will suggest only that you take the radical step of… _speaking_ to your fiance before you bed him? 

Mortal men are simple creatures, but they also have unique predilections. Perhaps he will enjoy it if you play the coquette. Perhaps he will want you fully clothed during the act, perhaps he will wish you to display yourself to him. You will never know for certain unless you ask. 

But I hope that you will also ask, nay _demand_ something from him as well. What is it that _you_ want, dearest Sarah?

Ask him to do the things that give you pleasure. If it is as your mother says and he is, above all things, kind, I imagine he would be willing.

I see how everything that happens below the neck might sound crude to one who has never experienced it. But I believe that you will see that, once lips and tongue and fingers have done their work, the parts below the neck may suddenly begin to yearn for similar attentions, and what follows need be in no way crude.

What might a wedding night look like? I imagine myself in a bedchamber with a willing bride (a position in which, incidentally, I _have_ found myself, though the bride was not mine—mortals do not only wish that their children be taken away). It might please you to know that I, too, have a fondness for everything that lies above a woman’s neck. I can imagine the feel of her soft cheek under my palm, the soft cascade of her hair as I unpin it and let it fall through my fingers and over her shoulders. I can feel the hard angle of her jaw under my thumb as I trail it toward her lips in all their fullness, lips that might reach out to bite the intruding thumb as eyes gazed up at me with want.

But most of all I imagine my senses taking careful measure of everything that she says to me, with words and without. I imagine whispering in her ear the things that parts of me will do to parts of her just before I do them, using language that might be called crude but that would make her breath catch with its specificity. By the time her body was revealed to me, and mine to her, we would be moving and breathing as one, or as close to oneness as two beings can be. 

I could continue, but really, a wedding night should contain _some_ level of mystery, should it not? 

Though I fear most mortal women do not have happy memories of their wedding nights. Perhaps not because their husbands are monsters, but simply because there is little thought given to female pleasure. I hope only that yours is…not unpleasant. 

Yours eternal,

J.

_~Postscript~_

It should not be painful. Tell him to stop if it is. 


	13. Chapter 13

  
THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

I find myself drawn to the poets in the days before my wedding, perhaps because this earthly plane feels ugly to me. There is still beauty in it, to be sure, but new knowledge makes everything seem coated with a fine layer of grime that I never noticed before.

Most particularly, I read and re-read Shakespeare’s description of “devouring time” with its “keen teeth,” and the speaker’s wish that it would “carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow” in the hopes that “my love shall in my verse ever live young.”

I was young once. And I still am, by the measure of my world. But I feel strangely older now, and distant from that young self.

I sat alone for a long time after I read your letter. I do not believe you have lied to me about what my father did. Reading your account of it, it was as though many pieces of a confounding riddle suddenly fell into place. For, loathe as I am to admit it, you are right—we have few servants in the house. My parents are rarely invited to social functions. I can recall my father cursing over some menial task that needed doing and being unable to find anyone willing to perform it. 

What he did is unfathomable to me. He is of me and I am of him, and yet I feel as distant from him as the earth from the moon. 

I thought I knew what monsters looked like after running your labyrinth. But I wonder now if he is more the monster, clothed in finery and generations of careful breeding though he may be.

But if he is a monster…am I a monster as well? What does it mean to be a monster’s child?

Perhaps you are right about one thing, that I delight in painting you as a lowborn scoundrel because I am afraid to look too closely at the darkness in my own home, or in my own mirror.

Some time after reading your letter I wandered downstairs to my father’s study. I do not know what I intended, only that I felt the need to see him, to see if I could seek out something in his face, his demeanor, that would reveal the inner workings of his soul to me. 

I stood just outside the half-open doorway, quiet as a mouse, and watched him do what he has always done: write briskly with his quill pen, peruse documents or ledgers, and occasionally pull a book from his shelf (books that I was never allowed to look at) to examine something. 

I was struck, I think, by how very _ordinary_ he seemed. Knowing now the crime he has committed, I thought that I would see something new in him, some whiff of sulphur or curl of his mustache. But no, he is as he has always been—face frozen into a mixture of boredom and irritation, mustache and beard perfectly trim, not a hair out of place. I look like him, especially around the eyes, and it horrifies me. 

Abigail told me stories of faeries and faerie trees when I was a child, I remember. I wonder if she is also shunned in the town for serving in our household.

I yearn to know the truth of my mother’s role in all of this, and yet I say nothing to her, for I do not know if I am ready to hear what she has to say. What if she reveals herself to be a monster as well, even if she regrets what she did? I do not know if I can lose one of a dwindling number of seemingly good-hearted people in my small world.

_Devouring time._

You tell me to seek out and demand my own pleasure from my husband. What _is_ pleasurable to me, I wonder? I have never thought to ask, or attempt to discover it, because I always imagined that pleasure was a gift that someone would choose to bestow upon me (or not, more likely). Not something that I could bestow upon myself.

In the past I have sometimes lain awake at night and let my hands travel over myself, and there were certain places that seemed more alive than others, but I never allowed myself to venture further than a fleeting caress. It felt…rather like trespassing, as though I would be wresting something from my body that was not mine to take.

I find I do not know where to begin. I do not know how I would like to be touched, though as I’ve said, I believe above the neck would be an ideal starting place. Not…unlike what you described. I think perhaps I might also like to feel a man’s hands in my hair, feel his fingers trace the angles of my face and neck. I like the idea of hands larger, rougher, stronger than mine gripping me in a way that makes intentions clear…but then turning soft when they brush across my mouth, or when they follow the lace at my throat.

(Forgive me, but I cannot stop wondering—do brides truly wish themselves away to you? Or do husbands wish the brides away? Are they then forced to run your labyrinth after you have had your fill of them, or do you simply send them back? Is your kingdom filled with displaced brides?)

My mind is, as you can see, a trifle scattered.

What is it that I desire? Based on the drawings I’ve seen, at least, it seems I have an endless variety of choices. Perhaps Roger will teach me what it is that I desire, if I can come to understand what it is that he desires from me. If the words freeze on my tongue perhaps we can write things down, as you and I write to one another, seemingly without hesitation.

I suppose I will never know if Roger is a skilled lover, given that he is the only man who will ever touch me, and I will have no basis for comparison. I do believe, though, that he will not hurt me, and for that much I am grateful. 

I wonder if you will continue writing to me, or if I will cease to be an object of interest to you after I am married and bedded and devouring time has made its mark on me more deeply. I wonder if you share the particular fascination that mortal men have with virgins, which I have never understood—is it not more enticing to imagine a girl with a certain level of knowledge and skill in matters of the flesh? But as you yourself have said, mortal men are predictable in their habits of arrogant destruction. Perhaps they are also predictable in their desire to conquer and claim ownership of all things first.

(I cannot help laughing at the thought of my body laid out naked on a bed with a flag planted upon my brow, delicately waving in the wind.)

My wedding is tomorrow morning. This is the last night that I will sleep in my own home as a member of this household (though my heart is aflutter and I doubt I will sleep much). I suppose I should feel some sense of loss, and I do, but knowing what I now know of my father, I find myself eager to escape. Perhaps time away from this house and all its secrets will help me to clear my head.

I wonder if this is good-bye.

Sincerely, 

S.

_~Postscript~_

I do not believe that anyone has ever told me to seek out pleasure for myself, or to refuse to tolerate pain. You are still a scoundrel, and you _did_ try to murder me with a machine full of knives, but…thank you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments! I'm about to enter a fairly busy period at work, so there might be a bit more of a lag between chapters, but they'll get posted, I promise.
> 
> And yes, we will eventually get some sexy time, probably soon, but don't hold me to that, this is a slow burn after all. ^_^


	14. Chapter 14

  
H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO THE RT. HON. SARAH WILLIAMS

* * *

  
Dearest Sarah,

It would seem that you are in need of a bit of levity, so I will begin this letter by telling you that the goblins have invented carrot and pumpkin warfare.

I blame Hoghead, who has long insisted on growing both pumpkins and carrots in his surprisingly bountiful garden. Anyone living in close proximity to goblins should realize that anything that resembles either a sword or a shield will eventually be used as such, but no, your friend must have his vegetables for that soup that he apparently likes to share with the ogre and the bog-guardian. 

What is carrot and pumpkin warfare, you ask? As with most things goblin, the rules depend heavily on the participant (and the weather, and the time of day, and whether one is facing east or south-east). As far as I can surmise it involves stabbing things (other goblins, walls, the very air) with the carrots and using the hollowed-out pumpkins as a kind of shield. 

Which might explain the scene I describe to you now: namely, a throne room full of pumpkin detritus and carrots of various lengths sticking out of every crevice in the walls.

I hope this description of the utterly undignified state of my throne room, as well as the fact that I might— _might_ —have bits of smashed pumpkin stuck to my otherwise immaculate boots will both offer amusement and give you a brief feeling of superiority.

How generous of me, to give you on a platter a reason to turn your nose up at me. (Not that you have ever needed a reason to do so before.)

Good-bye? Really? I see no reason for your earthly union to cause me to lose interest in our correspondence. Unless your letters suddenly grow full of descriptions of your household ledgers, servant gossip, and the day-to-day achievements of your children. 

(It is a truth universally acknowledged that one’s own children are an endless source of awe and wonder; others’ children, utterly tiresome.Your mother may have told you otherwise, but I assure you, she was lying.)

Devouring time, indeed. My kind do not experience time in the same manner that you do, so I am grateful for this insight, that mortals see time as a tooth-filled maw. Truly horrific. I suppose if a faerie wrote a poem about time they might compare it to an intermittent summer breeze, or an endlessly running river.

And yet I think mortal hearts in some ways burn brighter for their fleeting existence, create madder works of passion and genius in their desperate desire to outrun that gaping maw. Faeries do not seem to produce much poetry.

Turning to the primary source of your melancholy…so now you know your father’s true nature, and it troubles you. It is strange to know that you are in pain, and that I have caused it (though really your father is the cause).

I find it even stranger to write the following words, but it seems they bear saying: you are not a monster, Sarah.

Oh, an impossible creature, to be sure. A casual destroyer of goblin cities, a breaker of well-made ballrooms, and a refuser of incredibly generous offers of dreams and servitude. But no, not a monster.

I am perhaps not the best example of how one may differ from one’s father, since you seem to have classed me as deviant and low-born long ago. But I will tell you anyway that my own father was so fearful that I would usurp him before his death that he tried to murder me almost weekly from the time I was old enough to speak. Poison, casual walks near cliffs, well-paid assassins. I survived through a combination of sheer luck and spite. 

In the end he was satisfied with exiling me to this ramshackle kingdom. 

He took pleasure in others’ pain, particularly mortal pain. I will not describe to you the things that he did to the unfortunate young men and women who happened to find themselves in his clutches via a wrong turn near a faerie tree. 

All of this is to say that I (and I imagine many other offspring of monstrous parents) have also wondered if I was helpless to the blood that ran in my veins. In the end I may be, in your mind, of questionable moral rectitude, but I am not my father.

(I might take pleasure in the power that I occasionally wield over others, in playing with mortal hearts and minds. But I am not a sadist.) 

If you look within yourself and also find that you are not driven by sadism, or could not bring yourself to cut down a faerie tree for any reason, then I think you truly are as distant from your father as the sun from the moon, and need not worry that a monster lurks within you.

Regarding your uncertainties as to what gives you pleasure…given that I am master of all that I survey in my humble kingdom, I must also confess that I am a bit baffled by the concept of _trespassing_ on my own body, or of being denied the right to whatever physical pleasure I should choose to either wrest from myself or engage in with willing partners. But then, I am not a mortal woman who has never truly been granted ownership of anything, even my own flesh. 

I can see how your own hands on your body might feel like thieves. Perhaps, as you seem to have realized yourself, it might be helpful to imagine that those hands belong to another? 

It is a difficult thing, I realize (and perhaps more easily accomplished with a draught of spirits, if such things are available to you), but I recall that your powers of imagination are stronger than most. Your hands may be small, but you could imagine them larger, stronger. Move them over yourself, tracing curves and sharp angles, and perhaps even slip them beneath your nightdress to feel the warmth of your skin. Let them feel the beating of your own heart, the warmth of your own breath. I could tell you the places that you might like to linger over and touch again and again until your heart beats much faster, but I believe you know where those places are, and part of the joy in pleasure is the joy of discovery. 

Whatever you do discover, I hope it is a step toward breaking you out of your melancholy, which I really cannot abide. I had so many colorful jibes to send in your direction, but there is no pleasure in writing them when I imagine you downcast enough to end a letter by _thanking_ me. 

A final note: to be certain, my kingdom is not awash in wandering brides. I send them back when I tire of them. Or, more accurately, when they are completely soft-limbed and spent.

Though I have little faith in this outcome, I do hope, for your sake, that your wedding night finds you similarly spent. And if not through the ministrations of your husband, perhaps through your own discoveries. 

Yours eternal, 

J. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be smut, I promise! Probably in the next chapter. ^_^


	15. Chapter 15

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

  
Your Highness,

I write this to you on my wedding night. Given that I am engaged in putting pen to paper and not breathless in the arms of my husband, I can already imagine the smug satisfaction on your face at what surely must have been a disappointing first encounter. And you would be right that there was disappointment. 

But there was also, as you might have guessed, discovery. And now, at this late hour, alone with my own thoughts, I find myself strangely contented. 

I am not unaware that writing this letter as a married woman now places the act somewhere beyond questionable and into the realm of dangerous. Or perhaps I choose to believe it so, because my emotions have been so volatile of late that I feel the desire to simply wade unprotected into danger. 

The wedding, if you wish to know, was a brief affair. I wore a light beige dress with white ribbons and lace and fresh flowers in my hair, twisted and tied in a fashion that took Abigail over an hour to complete. My mother seemed to be on the verge of shedding a tear when she saw me, though my father, not surprisingly, only nodded in what I surmise was a show of satisfaction.

(I find that I can no longer look him in the eye.)

There were so few people present at the ceremony—only our parents, servants, and some other members of the Bolingbroke family who I have already forgotten but who I suppose I will be required to remember later. Roger looked pleasant enough. Everything happened in a very small church, and I remember little of the Latin benediction.

I do remember that Roger kissed me on the mouth when the moment arrived, which was a bit of a shock—I had been prepared for him to not kiss me at all, or kiss me on the forehead or cheek. He seemed rather proud of himself that he had done it. 

The wedding breakfast was a grand meal: ham, eggs, rice pudding, buttered rolls, cold beef tongue, and drinking chocolate, with a dense cake so drenched in spirits that I was certain it might have clouded my judgment. I admit that I ate heartily, having been afflicted with a nervous stomach in the days leading up to the wedding.

I had assumed that we would take a carriage to Petworth after the ceremony, or perhaps to the smaller estate at Blunham that was to be our home. But no, shortly after breakfast I learned that we were to take a short honeymoon in Cheltenham and the Cotswolds. Apparently Lady Bolingbroke had chosen the location for the reparative quality of its waters.

I was not averse to the idea of a cleansing. I still saw this as a beginning, as an opportunity to start anew. 

The carriage ride took half a day. Just as my first meeting with Roger had been my first time to be alone with a man who was not my father, so this carriage ride was the longest I had ever spent in another man’s presence. I tried to engage Roger in conversation, and we did manage to converse about the landscape and his childhood, though at some point he seemed to prefer silence. Knowing that a nattering woman is anathema to most men, I turned demure for the remainder of the trip. 

We arrived at our lodgings with a few hours of light still remaining in the sky, and as I had never traveled anywhere other than London and the convent I was excited by this strange new world with its mushroom-shaped yew trees and rolling green hills. Much of it reminded me of your labyrinth, actually, with its otherworldliness. I must have looked quite the silly girl as I frolicked between those trees. Roger smiled a bit as he watched me, though his smile, as always, seemed tinged with sadness.

There was a pleasant enough dinner at the lodging, and further talk of the weather and the landscape, but we both knew what awaited us, and while I looked to our wedding night with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, I felt that Roger only looked toward it with fear.

My heart fluttered a bit at the thought of having to use very blunt language with him, but I remembered your words. Surely talking plainly with my own husband would not be an insurmountable challenge? 

After much dallying over dessert and a glass of port (I admit I had a bit and it went straight to my head, but a small amount of wine seemed a good idea), we finally found ourselves alone in a small bedroom, the silence stretching between us. Roger sat on the edge of the bed, stood, and then sat again, and finally I sat next to him.

“May we…speak plainly?” I finally said to him.

He looked at me, looked away, and nodded. I screwed up my courage and continued.

“Is it unpleasant for you to be touched?” I asked.

He nodded quickly and my heart sank a little, for I could not well imagine how one consummates a marriage without physical contact. But, as you are fond of saying, I am not without imagination. 

“Is there something I could do, or not do, that would please you?”

He looked me full in the face then, and I saw so much pain there that I wanted to reach out and comfort him, but I remembered his violent reaction to that sort of gesture before and kept my hands at my sides.

When he finally spoke, his voice seemed full of wonder. “You are kind,” he said.

“I would…be devoted to you, if you would have me,” I told him. 

He reached out to me, but then he winced as if in pain and stood up, pacing the room.

And then he told me everything. How he had been months under siege with his regiment, and every hour, every day was only the smell, the sight of carnage. How whenever he was touched he felt only the memory of cold flesh or hot viscera spilling into his hands. How after some time he could not see a whole human body anymore without also seeing it in pieces. 

I must have blanched at his words, for he said, “I will stop, if you wish.”

I told him no, it was best that I know everything, painful though it may be to hear. So he continued, and told me that some companions who were perhaps less affected by the day-to-day realities of life on the battlefield got him drunk and took him to a whore in an attempt to cure him of his malady, but when she opened her legs for him he ran screaming from the room, because…I find it hard to write the words, but because…her female parts reminded him too much of an open wound.

(Though I have admittedly never seen that part of a woman’s body up close, I could imagine how he saw it in that moment, and it was indeed horrifying.)

After that night Roger’s truly base companions had a laugh with others at his expense, and rumors spread, and a pall hung over his family, and possible prospects for engagement dwindled.

“But then there was your family, that had shame of its own,” he said. “So we were an ideal pair.”

I was angry to hear my family described in such a way and thought to defend myself, but there was no venom in his words, only resignation. And he was right, as I now knew from your story—my family was shrouded in shame, even if the doing was all my father’s. 

We were silent for a long time. Roger let me turn his words over in my head for as long as I needed. Finally I asked him, “What is to become of us, then?”

He looked at me, and there was some warmth in his face, though it was faint. “They keep saying I will recover—the men in my regiment, my parents, doctors. And perhaps I will. But I do not know when. Until then…I cannot be fully a husband to you. I cannot…perform the duties of a husband. I cannot give you a child.”

My heart did break a bit at those words. I felt an iron door closing in front of me, imagining long years ahead of me with not even children to keep me company, my bed eternally cold.

“But I would not deprive you of happiness,” he continued. “You could seek your pleasure elsewhere.”

My mouth must have fallen open with shock. “Elsewhere?”

Roger nodded as if this were entirely normal. “It is done, I hear tell from others. No one need know, your reputation need not suffer. You could even…have a child, if you wanted.”

I felt the very ground giving way beneath my feet at his words. Only a few months before I had lived an orderly life in a convent. Now I found myself married but told that my marriage might never be consummated and that I was free to seek physical pleasure with others, even to have a child with others. What madness was this life that my parents had chosen for me? 

Roger stood and told me that he would have another drink in the drawing room of our lodgings—nightmares made it impossible for him to sleep, and he did not wish to wake me with his screaming. He left without so much as a kiss on my cheek.

It seemed I was to suffer one final humiliation—sleeping alone on my own wedding night. 

I do not hate Roger, or blame him. The horrors he has seen, and will continue to see…I do not know whether I could live through such things and remain untouched in spirit. But I cannot help but be angry at the world—the world that destroyed any chance of a truly happy and complete union between the two of us. 

I do not know how long I remained awake. Surely I sat for some time feeling nothing but emptiness. Then I believe I wept, softly at first and then louder, until I could not catch my breath and all but ripped my stays in my desire to be free of everything that confined me. When I finally stopped weeping I realized that I was wearing only my shift, my hair hanging wild around my face. 

And then my mind turned to ownership. And choices. 

You were right, I think, to tell me that I have never been granted true ownership of anything, not even my own body. When I gaze at the days and years ahead of me, I see that almost nothing in them—nothing at all—will be of my own choosing.

I did not choose the convent. I did not choose Roger. I did not choose the dark cloud that hangs over my family. In a way I will not even choose to have children or be childless—they will never be born, or they will be placed within me like linens in a drawer.

I never chose what was to be done with my body, either. For years it belonged to the nuns, made to rise and sleep and pray at their whim, and now I suppose it belongs to Roger until I die, even if he has no desire for it. It has never truly belonged to me.

But in that moment, brought low as low could be and with all artifice stripped away, I wondered if I could perhaps finally take ownership of it.

I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror and was struck by what I saw—my hair hanging wild around my face, my cheeks flushed, the angles of my body faintly visible under my shift, my skin glowing slightly in the light of the candelabra. I realized that I had never even seen my own body fully revealed in a mirror. How could I own it if I did not know it?

I stood and pulled my shift over my head. 

I had never seen myself revealed in this way, and my first instinct, honestly, was to cover my eyes in horror, for the body in front of me seemed an alien thing, a thing that belonged to someone else (which, as I have made clear, it always has). But I was determined, and I remembered the bravery that got me through your labyrinth, and I forced my eyes to look at myself.

I noted my tousled hair, its dark waves falling over my bare and lightly freckled shoulders. In the glow of the candles I could see the curve of my breasts and their dark tips, the pale slope of my stomach. I lifted my hands to my nipples and felt a rush of electricity that seemed to travel all through me. I watched my hands move lower, over the dark hair between my legs, until they touched something soft and delicate and shockingly warm…

I watched my mouth in the mirror fall open in a gasp, teeth biting my lower lip as I moved fingers over myself, fumbling and uncertain, but learning quickly.

And then, as you suggested, I closed my eyes and imagined other hands on me, perhaps one gripping the side of my neck and holding my body in place as it trembled, the other one moving lower and slipping within that soft, hot place, perhaps more expertly than my own inexperienced fingers. And when I gasped again the first hand would cover my mouth and a voice would whisper in my ear to be quiet, the house is abed, you must not wake them, all the while moving fast and deliberate between my legs, while the the first hand pushed a finger between my lips and then, wet, slid over my breast to circle the nipple…

_Mine_ , I whispered to myself. _Mine. This is all mine_. 

And when I opened my eyes my face was flushed pink, and the hand that I removed from between my legs was glistening.

(Can you see all of this? Can you see my eyes with their piercing stare, my lips full and flushed, a faint sheen of sweat on my forehead, my body uncovered and unafraid, and utterly, entirely mine?)

I once told you that you had no power over me. But I also had very little power over you…or only the power of rejection.

Now, though, I think I have found a new power. 

For I can imagine the words in this letter slipping beneath your clothes and effecting changes in your body like the changes I effected in mine. My words, _my_ words, have the power to make your breath quicken, to make your heart beat faster, to make you feel heat in all manner of places. 

I could get drunk on power like this, fleeting though it might be.

I wonder what you would do to me, should you find me ready and willing in front of a mirror.

Could you truly leave me as “soft-limbed and spent” as those wished-away brides you claim to have satisfied so thoroughly? And could you do it only with words written on a page? 

I somehow doubt that you could improve upon the ecstasy I was able to bring upon myself, but surely you enjoy a challenge. 

I promise not to thank you again until you are truly deserving of it. 

Yours,

Sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! There's another chapter coming soon, which I hand-wrote during a time when I was supposed to be working (shhh), just gotta do some editing and shaping on it.


	16. Chapter 16

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING, TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

Dearest Sarah,

Well.

Well.

Yew trees, you say? How delightful.

Allow me to take a moment to picture you frolicking among those trees, truly happy for at least a moment, and a far cry from the melancholy picture that the words in your last letter painted. I imagine you would be similarly enchanted by the landscape of my world, of which you only saw a small piece the last time you visited. 

I am also, I must say, relieved to hear your account of your wedding night. Though I realize it brought you pain, and I do not wish that for you, and though your mother had claimed that your intended was kind, I had still feared that he might prove as brutish as so many mortal men, perhaps venting his frustrations at whatever malady afflicted his spirit on you. But no, while the truth of his affliction is a sad one, it is not a rare one, and it seems that you may be able to find a way to live amicably with one another. Companionate marriages are not unheard of in the mortal world, I believe.

(I maintain that he sounds dull and lifeless, his face and bearing entirely ordinary. But harmless enough, which is a relief.) 

And it seems that you did have quite an extraordinary wedding night, if it did not quite take the form you had imagined.

Well. 

I will grant you some measure of victory in whatever this game is that we are playing, precious thing, for truly your letter has left me more discombobulated than I can ever recall being. I confess I have started and ceased this reply at least a half-dozen times now, and could not even begin that process until I had allowed myself a considerable interval to collect my wits. 

My. I would congratulate you on a return to form, but really, this is more in the realm of a butterfly bursting from its pupa, not a melancholy caterpillar returning to some measure of its usual self.

I am half delighted at your challenge and half disappointed that you did not simply wish yourself away to me for an evening. Or ten. But unlike you, I have some measure of patience. (And yes, before you walk through the door I have opened for you, it is almost entirely due to the convenient fact that I will never die.)

Truly, though, if this is what it now means for you to have power over me, precious thing, by all means, drink and be filled up. 

Your words have indeed, as you so eloquently described, traveled beneath my clothing and over my skin, as I might imagine your own light fingers (and mouth, and tongue) traveling. What a vision you must be in that mirror, your cheeks and lips red with the evidence of your own pleasure. 

But you move too quickly, I fear. Pleasure should be savored. Lingered over. 

You ask what I would do to you? Stand yourself in front of that mirror again, your body so thrillingly revealed, and imagine me approaching behind you out of the darkness, only the faint light of my eyes and the outline of my face visible to you in the light of your candelabra. You make as if to turn and embrace me, but no, I grip the back of your neck and hold you in place, keeping your eyes focused on the mirror. You watch as my hands pull your hair back from your face, watch as I close my eyes before burying my face in that dark softness, letting its scent wash over me. And then my lips ever so lightly trace the outline of your ear, moving down to your neck, and you sigh and close your eyes in pleasure, but no, I whisper, open your eyes, precious, and watch, because you should hide from nothing ever again.

You watch my hands slide ever so slowly down your arms, tracing the tips of your fingers, then traveling over your waist and back up to your shoulders, carefully avoiding those more sensitive parts of you, much as you might ache to feel my hands on them.

But by this point, of course, your lips are begging to be kissed, and I cannot be faulted for obliging them.

I turn your head gently toward me, my hand cupping your jaw, and I tell you yes, you should close your eyes now, the better to feel my lips brushing feather-light over yours, gently exploring, because a skilled kiss is above all an exploration, a learning. Your mouth opens for me, eager, but I hold back still, scraping your lips with my teeth, worrying them between my own. 

And then I lick your lips, so slowly, and finally push my tongue into your eager mouth. 

I wonder if I would taste your desire on your tongue, as I know I would taste it when I licked you elsewhere. Perhaps not, but I imagine your delightful little gasps and moans as I plunder your mouth, the sweet taste of you surely mixed with the heady scent of desire suffusing the rest of your body. I kiss you until every drop of my own taste is gone, until your taste has so invaded my senses that I no longer know where you end and I begin. 

And that is quite enough for one letter, don’t you think? You yourself did say that you vastly preferred all affection to take place above the neck, and I would not invade a realm of your body where I am not welcome. 

Perhaps it is your turn to tell me what you would do to me, should you find me ready and willing in your bedchamber. I am no stranger to ecstasy, and you are, you will acknowledge, not as well-versed in these arts as I am, but I believe you love a challenge as much as I. I wonder if you can make me gasp.

I also promise never to thank you until you are truly deserving of it. 

Yours eternal,

J.

~ _Postscript_ ~

I believed we have advanced to a level of familiarity where you can dispense with my title and call me by my name. Though I will happily address you as _Viscountess_ , if you so desire.


	17. Chapter 17

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

(I find that I prefer using your title. Consider it a thing of habit rather than a formality. Perhaps one day I will call you by your name.)

Well, indeed. When I said I preferred things that happened above the neck I truly had no idea how MUCH activity that could encompass. Visions of what you described have, I confess, quite occupied my mind during many of my recent waking hours, and at least some of my sleeping ones as well.

But I fear that I cannot reciprocate.

Not out of maidenly shyness, I assure you—I feel most of that has vanished with all the rules I thought existed concerning reality and fantasy, as well as many of the rules surrounding marriage. No, I cannot tell you what I would do to you because I know nothing of men’s bodies.

Oh, I am sure you will tell me that I have a vivid imagination, and to make use of it. But truly, in this area my knowledge is so sparse that I fear that rather than making your breath quicken, I would simply make you laugh, or cause your very elegant brows to arch at my ineptitude. And, being a creature of a certain amount of pride, I find I cannot bear the thought.

But what of those books and drawings that you pored over the convent, you might say? You will perhaps not be surprised to know that the books, at least, featured no descriptions of women doing things to men. It was entirely the reverse. Which, I think, reveals something about how mortals view carnal relations, and why my own mother told me to simply keep still.

(I am sorry, even I know that one should not mention one’s MOTHER when writing a response to a letter that left one quite flushed and excited. But my circle of companions is limited.)

Mr. Rowlandson’s prints, as well, though they were amusing, did not necessarily paint a flattering (or accurate, I suspect) picture of male anatomy. Which I suppose is not surprising, given their intended audience—a man might find his ardor doused at the sight of a much more attractive man having his way with a lady. 

So while I could surely cause your heart to race with descriptions of what I might do to myself, or of what I might like you to do to me, I find that when I am to be the actor I am quite flummoxed. 

But I shall try, at least. What small morsel could I offer you, _mon cœur_, if I am not yet able to offer an entire feast?

I could tell you that, were I to be in your presence, I would likely spend a long time simply looking at you, the way I imagine a man’s eyes linger on the body of a woman that he hungers for. Though I can only imagine you clothed, I could still allow my eyes to travel over the precise angles of your face, the lines and curves of your torso and hips, and the smoothness of your legs, made more so, I’m sure, for being encased in leather. Unshy, my eyes might linger on the parts of your upper body where skin is revealed, watching the light play over your paleness.

And then I might feel an irresistible urge to taste you, because I have never tasted a man's skin, or touched it, even. And I would momentarily hesitate, because of course a lady does not simply grab a man and press her mouth to him, but somehow I would sense that this is something that would please you, frowned upon though it might be in my world.

And so I would grip your arms and press my mouth to that small section of flesh that your slightly open shirt reveals, and though I don't know your taste yet I could imagine a combination of salt and spring air. And strange as it sounds, I might be tempted to pierce your flesh with my teeth, ever so gently, because I am above all things hungry, if not for the kind of nourishment that food can provide. 

How shall I come to know a man's body, _mon cœur_? Perhaps you could send me a drawing of yourself? Or paint a vivid picture with your words?

Or perhaps you could send me a dream? It seems the sort of thing you might be able to do.

My honeymoon, as it were, is finished, and we return to Petworth soon. Suffice it to say I have been somewhat distracted the entire time, though one day I might tell you of everything else that happened—it is not very interesting, but it is not unpleasant. 

I look forward to your reply. It is rather a delight to have no idea what you will say or do next. 

Yours,

Sarah

  
~Postscript~

  
You may call me Viscountess, if it pleases you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This story's plot has gotten much more twisty-turny than I thought it would, so I'm spending a little time writing ahead before posting chapters. Rest assured I'm still working on it regularly, there just might be longer gaps between posts.


	18. Chapter 18

H.R.H JARETH, GOBLIN KING, TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

My dear Viscountess,

Oh, now you choose to be coy in your knowledge, do you? After so many firey protestations, so many insistences that you were not so unknowing as I would presume, _now_ you claim to not know a man’s body well enough to tell me in more detail what you would do to mine?

If anything, I can tell you are enjoying this new power that you have over me, and I find I cannot begrudge you that enjoyment. Though I will, of course, need to find a new source of power over _you_. 

And you have certainly not left me starving, small though this morsel may be. Rest assured that I have savored it. You even were so bold as to go _below my neck_. 

I also confess to a certain level of understanding. A drawing is hardly sufficient, and a man’s body rendered in art is a rather lackluster thing compared to being in close proximity to an actual man’s body—to experiencing it with eyes, mouth, skin, ears, and nose.

(And really, even the most flattering of this Mr. Rowlandson’s drawings could probably not give you a true sense of what MY body looks like unclothed. It is a rather splendid specimen, I must say.)

So no, I shall not send you a drawing, nor shall I try to describe a man’s body in words. But a dream…yes, perhaps I could send you that. A fleeting glimpse, but enough that you should be able to answer my challenge in more detail. 

Take note of the words at the bottom of this letter. Intone them three times before you fall asleep while picturing me in your mind—as much as you remember, that is.

Sweet dreams.

Yours eternal, 

J.


	19. Chapter 19

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H JARETH, GOBLIN KING 

* * *

Your Highness,

Sweet dreams, indeed.

I fear the Petworth household is somewhat concerned for my health, given how much time I seem to spend either sleeping or wandering about in a dreamlike state. I hear whispers that they might send for the family physician.

But oh, what a delightful dream.

Do you tease me with fragments to regain some of that power over me, _mon coeur_? Or is this simply the nature of dreams, that they must be fleeting and seen through gauze?

Regardless, this dream has given me much that is pleasant to drift away into during my waking hours. I believe I prefer it to a picture, even a detailed one. This dream was…like being swept away on a current, with a new scrap of sensation every moment, all of it adding up to a delightful sense of _man_ that I am sure I had not sense of before. 

And now, perhaps, I can more confidently tell you what I w


	20. Chapter 20

H.R.H JARETH, GOBLIN KING, TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

Sarah,

Are you quite well? I have heard nothing for quite some time—perhaps a full week in your world, though it is always difficult to be certain. I am tempted to send a goblin into your wardrobe again, but something tells me this gap in our correspondence is not an act of defiance on your part. 

I imagine you were simply interrupted in the writing of this letter, but my mind cannot help but conjure more dramatic reasons for your silence.

Perhaps your husband has found his ardour for you kindled anew. Perhaps you have been stricken with pleurisy. 

Even as I write these words I find them ridiculous to look upon. It is your own fault, really—you claim to have lived long in a world where nothing significant happens, thus perhaps imagining that my world is one of constant adventure. But it is, in fact, quite dull much of the time, interspersed only with the occasional instance of goblin mischief or a wished-away child. 

And so now, having had this correspondence to wile away my time these last circles of the clock, I find myself the character in a novel that I quite wish to continue reading, and rather put out to have it end so abruptly.

I do hope you will write again. Soon.

Yours Eternal,

J.


	21. Chapter 21

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Dear Jareth,

I cannot promise that this letter will also not end abruptly, but I think I have dealt with the cause of my previous interruption.

The Lady had no right, really.

That is what happened, as you may have guessed—I was interrupted at my writing desk by Lady Bolingbroke herself, and horrified at the thought that she might see my words to you, I quickly threw the unfinished letter in the fire, where I hope it still made its way to you. 

I can feel a little ember of fury smoldering within me when I think on how the Lady of the house has no regard for my privacy, or her son’s, for that matter. I had thought that my bedroom— _our_ bedroom, for in spirit at least I share this room with Roger, though he is no longer here—would be a sanctuary. But no, it seems the Lady believes she is fit to come and go as she pleases and only titters at my protestations.

Tonight, however, I have waited until a much later hour and am writing this letter by the faint light of the moon that comes through the window, so that any light from a candle will not be seen beneath the door. I also have a copy of the Psalms nearby so that, should she choose to invade my room at this late hour, I can claim sleeplessness and the need to soothe myself with pious words. 

I fear I must go back much further, though, for all of this to make sense.

You might be surprised to know that I enjoyed my honeymoon, even if my marriage remains unconsummated. Though the darkness never quite left Roger’s eyes while we were in the Cotswolds, he did seem somewhat lighter-footed in the wake of his confession. We spent our brief time there enjoying the scenery and the baths, which were quite pleasant, if not the cure-all that they claim to be. 

Back at Petworth, however, the pall seemed to settle firmly over Roger again, and after spending an evening in his parents’ company I could see the reason. I remembered Lord and Lady Bolingbroke as being pleasant enough, but upon closer inspection I find that Lady Bolingbroke in particular is very keen to maintain a veneer of cheerfulness throughout the household, which is perhaps not so easy when one’s son is constantly in the grip of melancholy. She genuinely seemed to believe that a trip to the Cheltenham baths and a few nights with his new bride would be all that Roger needed to cure him of his malady, and was clearly disappointed to find her son much the same as he had been when he departed. 

Roger left for his regiment the next day. I tried to offer what little comfort I could and told him to write to me, and that I would write to him, hoping that descriptions of mundane things might take his mind from the horrors he might forced again to witness. He was grateful, but I feel that he was gone long before he actually departed Petworth.

With Roger gone, Lady Bolingbroke wasted no time. She sat me down for tea and cakes in the drawing room, and after only a few seconds of pleasantries very directly asked me if Roger and I had consummated our marriage. I was tempted to lie, but somehow I felt that this would lead to more trouble in the future, and so with my head slightly bowed in meekness I told her no, we had not.

She sighed, seeming disappointed but unsurprised. And then she moved on to the line of reasoning that Roger had so shocked me with previously, that I should discreetly take another lover. But in her case it has nothing to do with my desires or happiness—only with the Bolingbroke estate’s need for an heir. 

I sat there, quite dumbstruck, as she explained that she had several prospects in mind, and that she would of course leave the final decision up to me, and that once I had chosen we could arrange for the gentleman in question to call (on a day when most of the house-servants were away). And if the deed did not produce the desired results in one go, we could arrange another meeting in a few months.

With a smile on her face she suggested that I should probably complete the act two or three times, and that I should stand against the wall on my hands for a bit afterwards.

I worked very hard to conceal my horror, though I am sure some of it must have shown through. I told her that I would like some time to adjust to my new surroundings, and also to carefully consider my choices, hopefully convincing her that the likelihood of conception would be higher if my mood was more settled.

She smiled again and agreed to give me one week.

One _week_. For the marriage must _appear_ to have been consummated, it seems, and the quickest way to accomplish that is for me to give birth to a child in nine months’ time. 

Having only just stepped onto a path in which I might take ownership of certain things that were denied to me, or in which I might make choices of my own, I now feel that I am being unceremoniously yanked from that path and pushed onto another, where yet again the future is clearly laid out for me and beyond my control, even if the end result is fairly clear.

I do not want a stranger to touch me. I do not want to bear a stranger's child.

I thought of writing to my mother, but she is powerless to help me, I’m sure. I thought of feigning illness serious enough to warrant confinement in a sanatorium, but then I would be truly giving up the little freedom I have left. 

The Lady is suspicious of my correspondence with you, I’m sure. Before she interrupted my letter-writing she had barged into my bedroom on two other occasions, once while I was dressing and another while I was bathing, oblivious to my shock. Though she did not, I think, see the letter that I quickly tossed into the fire, she did notice the quill and inkwell on the bedroom’s writing desk and immediately asked me if I was corresponding with friends from the convent. I told her no, I had kept a diary since I was a child. She surely noticed the loose paper on the desk, though, and her smile did not meet her eyes. 

I feel so trapped and I know not what to do. For the time being, however, I must address the most pressing problem—how to deal with an unwanted suitor who may be arriving in a week. I suspect that clouting a member of the landed gentry over the head with a washbasin might further complicate my situation. Perhaps I could weep uncontrollably. I imagine this would cool the ardour of any man…though perhaps this thought is naive on my part. 

If you have any advice to offer, I beg you send it with haste.

Yours,

Sarah

~Postscript~ I am sorry to have caused you distress and hope this letter has calmed your fears. Though given how much you seem to have missed me after only one week…how goes that quest to regain some of your power over me, I wonder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments, I'm sorry I haven't responded to all of them! Some of you were clearly right about what caused the sudden interruption in Sarah's letter. And sorry for the tension, but of course these two need SOME obstacles between them, otherwise we'll just have chapter after chapter of boning (which, you know, not entirely against that, it's just not the sort of fic I'm writing THIS time around.)


	22. Chapter 22

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING, TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

My dear Viscountess,

I am not typically a creature of violence (one of the benefits of being a monarch is that one can order others to do the violence in one’s place). But I might have conjured up very detailed images of bodily harm when I imagined you being forced to bear a stranger’s child. Or even if the act did not result in a child, being forced to bed a stranger not entirely of your own choosing. 

Toward your husband I might have felt only disdain (and admittedly a smattering of pity, knowing what I know now), but toward this hypothetical father of your child…perhaps I do have a bit of my own father in me, given the very specific harm I now wish to inflict on him. 

Mortal bones crack so easily. As do sinews. Not that I have any direct experience with that sort of thing.

But I digress, for I am well-versed enough in mortal society to understand that the death of a nobleman—even if the body was exceptionally well disposed of—might make your situation even more unpleasant. And so I will offer another solution.

You’ll find in this envelope a couple of pearls slightly smaller than the one I procured for your ailing dog. Believe me when I say that one of these, slipped into a man’s drink, will not end his life, but will cause him to fall into a very deep but brief sleep, one which will erase a decent stretch of memory of what came before.

I suggest that you go along with the Lady’s plan. Request a bottle of spirits and two glasses for your bedroom. Make sure the man in question is seated on the bed when you give him his drink, and when he has been rendered quite useless, dishevel his clothing slightly (and yours as well, for the full effect). When he wakes, feign the countenance of a ravished woman.

He shall have no reason to suspect you, and what man would admit to not being able to hold his liquor, or to losing consciousness during carnal relations? 

This does not, of course, deal with the problem of the Lady’s desire for an heir. But it should, I think, purchase you some time. Particularly if you insinuate that you completed the act multiple times and stood on your head afterward. 

Admittedly this entire ruse seems rather silly, because of course there is a much simpler and more pleasant option available to you, of which I am sure you are aware. It includes a word that begins with ‘w' that you have, perhaps rightly so, been reluctant to utter for some time. But I can think of no better reason than to make use of it now. 

As to who has power over whom…it would appear that you now find yourself in my debt, and at the mercy of many forces beyond your control. And yet you seem to have robbed me of the ability to wallow in victory, for I would not wish this powerlessness on you again, not when you have had a taste of freedom and rule-breaking.

But you did address me as _Jareth_ in your last letter. Which tells me that yes, I do have a different sort of power over you now. 

Yours eternal,

J.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the comments! As to the many questions—what happened with the tree, when is she gonna wish herself away—I’m getting to them, I promise!


	23. Chapter 23

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

Ah yes, w…es. What do you know of those, I wonder? I suspect that you have never needed to w… for anything. 

As you can see I am still reluctant to even _write_ the word in question, much less utter it. How often did you remind me, in that time before, that words have power, and that I should not utter them carelessly?

Of course it had crossed my mind to simply w… myself out of this situation. Particularly after that delightful dream you sent me, I now feel more confident in the things that I could do to you in person.

But what guarantee could you offer me that, once I found myself in your realm, I would ever be able to return to mine? Though you have proven yourself to be less of a scoundrel than I remembered, I cannot say that I would trust you with my very _life_. And even if you had no initial intention of keeping me prisoner, can you not say that you would not be tempted, being in a situation of, once again, absolute power over me? 

But why, dear Sarah, should you ever _want_ to return to your realm, I hear you say? Why remain in a place that sees you purely as breeding stock, where you will effectively be a different kind of prisoner for the rest of your life?

And I would answer, because I no longer run away from my struggles. Roger may not be able to be a husband in most senses of the word, but he is a good man, and I would not abandon him. And my mother has no one but me and Tobias, and to vanish after she has worked so hard to carry out one of her only duties—to procure a good match for me—would be unnecessarily cruel. 

There is also a worry that I hate to admit, but we have thus far been quite frank with one another, for which I am grateful. 

What if, as young women are wont to do, I were to grow immeasurably fond of you? And what if you saw me as only one of many mortal women enamoured of your otherworldly charms and glamours, and simply dismissed me back to my mundane existence after you ceased to be amused by my presence? What then?

To be clear, I am _not_ in any way muddled in heart and mind by your presence in these letters, though I am grateful for the assistance and advice you have given me. Nor is it inevitable that I would swoon upon being nearer to you. But I am young and unknowing, and you are ancient and experienced, and I am wary of leaving my feather-light heart so vulnerable to another’s grip. Perhaps you might only warm it. But perhaps you might pierce it and toss it aside. 

(As to the salutation in my last correspondence…I wrote that letter in haste, and in quite a state, as you might imagine. Calling you by your name was a slip, not an indication that I have ceded any power to you.)

I thank you for these little pearls, which are surely my most prized possession at this moment, and a reminder that I am not completely powerless, much as others might want to make me so. 

Because the Lady would not leave me in peace until I had chosen, and because she seemed determine that I should have some choice in the matter (even though I clearly do not), I have chosen Baron Ludlow, a very distant cousin of Roger’s, who I believe was presented to me as an option because of his slight resemblance to my husband (at least based on the miniature that the Lady showed me). He will come calling in three days, and I doubt I shall sleep until then. I pray that he is not a brute and that I shall have no trouble secreting one of these pearls into his wine.

I admit I am…unnerved at the thought of momentarily having so much power over a man. I would never take advantage of someone in such a state (though I am sure the same cannot be said for more than a few men), but just the thought of rendering someone helpless, even for a moment, without their knowledge, makes me deeply uneasy.

But the alternative is simply unthinkable. I will not be a broodmare, even if my husband seems perfectly happy at the thought of raising another man's child, and the Lady and her husband seem to have accepted that this is the only way they may continue the Bolingbroke line.

When I write again I hope it will be tell you of my success. In the meantime, perhaps you might send me words that would sooth me to sleep…or at least distract my mind from the coming of Baron Ludlow.

I would tell you what I should do to you, now that those exquisite dreams have given me a clearer sense of where my hands and mouth might go, but I find that I cannot focus my mind on amorous thoughts. Which fills me anew with rage, for it seems the Lady would presume to take away all that is pleasurable to me. 

I pray for sweeter dreams tonight.

Yours, 

Sarah


	24. Chapter 24

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING, TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

My dear Viscountess,

Ah, you would truly drive a man to the brink of madness with these crumbs of enticement. My rage at the Lady might almost be equal to yours, if only because she has led you to such a state where you cannot turn your mind toward pleasure.

Your other words wound me, though. Do you still truly believe that I would imprison you in my realm? I have no interest in a caged bird, only one that flies free and returns of its own volition. I will confess that, were you to come to me, I would certainly do everything in my power to make your stay pleasurable, so that you might find it impossible to leave. And I would succeed, I am sure. Only a lesser man would think to make you stay by force or sorcery rather than the power of persuasion.

But you also fear that you would fall in love with me, and that I would not fall in love with you, and toss you aside when I tired of you.

You are correct in at least one aspect: in time, you would fall in love with me. How could you not? I am beautiful to look on, erudite, a skilled dancer, and even more skilled in kissing (my descriptions in these letters really do not do that particular skill justice). And my realm—particularly the parts of it beyond this ramshackle kingdom—is a feast for the senses. With time spent among smells, tastes, and sights that promise only pleasure and languor, how could one not fall in love?

Perhaps it is I who should be fearful that, despite the bounty of riches I would lay at your feet, you would still choose to return to your own world, leaving me pining like a sad mortal boy. Truly, the thought of such a pitiful sight should move your heart to stay with me forever. But if you ever wished it, you could return to your realm.

I fear there is no magical pearl I can enclose with this letter that will cause you to trust me in this. But look within, and I think you will know it to be true. 

In the meantime, I shall try to write words that will soothe you to sleep. Let me paint you a picture of night in my realm, of an endless meadow filled with fireflies such that one cannot tell where sky ends and earth begins, where the wind makes soft music as it blows through the tall grass. Strolling through this meadow you would find the grass soft as woven silk, the faint scent of honeysuckle on the wind. Your limbs would feel lighter than they have ever felt in your own world, and I think your mind and heart might feel lighter as well.

And when you tired of frolicking in this meadow you could still view the stars and the fireflies from the window of a tall tower, where a bed soft as a cloud awaits you, candles flickering golden in their sconces, sweet fruits and rich wines on the tables. And if you cannot, as yet, imagine amorous things, perhaps you would be comforted to simply lie upon that cloud-like bed with me by your side, falling asleep to the sound of faint breezes. I would only place a kiss upon your brow, albeit one that might linger, so that you could fill your senses with me as you fell asleep. 

I await your next letter with eager anticipation, if only for a detailed description of a mortal man left confused and unsatisfied. 

Yours eternal, 

  
J. 


	25. Chapter 25

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Your Highness,

I write this letter to you from behind a locked door.

It would seem that even the little freedom I have managed to gain for myself is quickly snatched away. I am surprised that my quill and paper have not been taken from me as well, though no doubt the Lady assumes nothing can be sent from within this room. 

It seems I was not as clever as I thought myself to be.  
Everything appeared to go according to plan. Baron Ludlow arrived in the afternoon when the servants had been given a carefully chosen day off. He resembled Roger but was also nothing like him—sharp-angled where Roger’s features have a bit of softness to them, talkative where Roger was mostly silent. Though perhaps the talkative aspect was due to the strangeness of our circumstances.

After a period of idle conversation that was both too long and too short, the Lady made a show of asking whether I would like to give Baron Ludlow a tour of the upstairs wing of the house. I went upstairs, and he followed, and soon we were in my bedroom with the door closed.

I had thankfully managed to procure a small bottle of spirits from the Lady, convincing her that I might need it to help calm my nerves and make the act less awkward. I quickly asked Baron Ludlow if he would care for a drink, and he agreed, and I managed to carefully drop one of the pearls into his glass, though my hands shook and I feared that it my anxious state I might mix up his glass and mine, which would have been truly frightful. But no, I took a deep breath to steady myself and led him to my bed, where I gave him his glass with a steady hand. Thankfully the pearl had completely vanished within it.

It was as you promised—no sooner had he taken a sip than his eyes blinked rapidly and he sagged, so much so that I quickly took his glass from him so that it would not spill. He was completely unresponsive in a matter of seconds, though I made a point of pinching and poking him a few times to be sure. 

Then I set to work, quickly unbuttoning his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers (taking care not to touch him anywhere private, but still feeling rather sick about the unbuttoning), then undoing my own stays and removing my petticoats. As a last detail I pinched my cheeks to make them flushed and tousled some of my hair out of its fastenings. 

Baron Ludlow awoke almost a half hour later, looking equal parts contented and confused. I made myself a bit out of breath and held my hand over my chest as if my heart were fluttering. The poor fellow, I could tell he wanted to ask what exactly had happened, having no memory of it, but clearly the desire to appear amorously experienced won out, for he simply put his clothes in order, took my hand, and kissed it.

“I hope that was to your liking, Viscountess,” he said.

I managed a slightly deeper blush and a giggle behind my hand. “Indeed, my Lord. An afternoon to remember,” I whispered.

I asked him to show himself out, feigning shyness at my flushed face and tousled hair. And then I breathed a great sigh of relief, feeling that at least for a few weeks, I was free of the cage that the Lady would presume to confine me in.

But it was not to last.

As I slowly paced the room while indulging in a few more sips of wine, I was shocked when the door to my room opened quite suddenly, revealing the Lady with a decidedly unkind expression on her face.

Something in her demeanor told me that I should be wary. Still, I set aside my wine and curtsied, making a show of fixing my slightly disheveled hair.

Her smile did not meet her eyes. “I trust your meeting with Baron Ludlow was not unpleasant?”

I shook my head. “Not unpleasant, my Lady. Rather…quicker than I expected.”

She moved closer to me in a way that showed she clearly wanted to dominate the room. “How many times?” she asked.

I looked down. “We managed twice, my Lady, though I know you recommended thr—“

She slapped me.

I was so shocked by the violence that I barely heard her next words, which is perhaps for the best, given how hateful they were. She had, it seemed, positioned herself outside my bedroom door the entire time, and had peeped through the keyhole when she heard nothing to indicate that Baron Ludlow and I were engaging in intimate relations. Needless to say, she saw what transpired, and only failed to burst in and confront me out of concern for Baron Ludlow’s honor, and what he might say to others. 

She called me ungrateful and stupid and all manner of other ugly names and demanded to know why I would sabotage her efforts to secure my family’s reputation and her family’s legacy, and I finally shouted back at her that I would not bear a stranger’s child, and that this sort of arrangement was not at all what I had been promised when I was wed.

She was momentarily shocked at my outburst, but then her face settled into a countenance of grim cruelty, and she quietly told me that it was a miracle I had been promised anything, given the shame that had haunted my family for years. She told me that I should, and _would_ take whatever crumbs were offered to me, and that if I would not go along amiably, she would make things happen by force.

She stood and went to the doorway. “You will remain in this room until I deem you fit to leave it,” she said quietly. “Your meals will be eaten here. You will not correspond with anyone, including my son. In a week, another man will enter this room, and by the time he leaves it, you will be with child.”

Before she closed the door, she gave me a faint smile, and I was horrified to think that she was enjoying herself. “Ludlow is a bit of a fool, but at least he is known to be gentle. I cannot promise the same for your next visitor.”

And with that she locked the door behind her. 

I felt as though the walls of that room were closing in around me like iron bars. I went to the window to find it locked as well, though my bedroom is high enough from the ground that I should not be able to jump. Not wanting the Lady to have the satisfaction of hearing me scream, I grabbed a pillow from my bed and screamed into it as loudly as I could. 

_No_ , my mind screamed again and again. _No_.

I would not run away from my struggles, as I told you. But I cannot be here, now, in this room that has become a prison.

_I mustn’t say the words. I mustn’t._

But why mustn’t I? Why should I fear being trapped in your world when I am already trapped in mine, and when in your world I am likely to have free reign of more than a single bedroom? When in your world my body would still be mine to do with as I please?

_I wish…I wish…_

I am not running away. I am running _toward_. And not forever, persuasive as you might be. 

I wish the Goblin King would take me away. Right now.

Yours,

S. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! There IS sexy stuff coming, but not for a few more letters.


	26. Chapter 26

THE RT. HON. MARGARET WILLIAMS TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

My daughter,

No doubt you are surprised to receive a letter from me in this manner. I would explain, but it is a tale better told in person, and you are clever enough that some of it you have likely already fathomed. 

Clearly there are many things I should have told you long ago. That I did not is only because I wished to protect you…or if I am being truthful, to protect myself from that which is painful to remember.

I beg you to come home, though I understand why you would not wish to. I suppose it is possible that you cannot come back, that you were taken and are being held. But somehow I doubt that.

I am sorry for what has transpired. I was quite careful in securing a match for you, but I had not counted on the truly mad lengths that Lady Bolingbroke would go to in order to secure an heir. I should have paid as much attention to whispers about the parents as I did to whispers about the son. 

I do not know how much time has passed for you, but as I write this it has been a few hours since Lady Bolingbroke left our estate unsatisfied but resolved that you were not to be so easily returned to her. She had appeared in her carriage at mid-morning, without so much as a visiting card or a servant to announce her. Thankfully your father is away for at least another week, or the meeting might have gone quite differently.

I was interrupted at my mid-morning meal by a decidedly disheveled figure who demanded to know why I had _stolen_ her daughter-in-law out of a locked room in the middle of the night. When I only stared at her in confusion she accused me of _hiding_ you.

Somehow her mention of a locked room and her use of the word _disappeared_ lit a little ember in my mind, and while she continued to carry on about betrayals and unseemliness and the arrangement our families had made I began to piece together a picture of what might have occurred.

After I had had a moment to think I calmly asked her _why_ my daughter’s room had been locked. She blustered for a moment about safety, but when pressed and after checking all corners and doors to make sure no servants were eavesdropping, admitted all the details of her sordid plan to me. I was truly horrified, and as I worked to maintain an unruffled countenance, I decided to play into her suspicions.

I “confessed” that yes, you had managed to get word to me and that I had somehow “stolen" you away (though I did not elaborate on how I had spirited you out of a locked room), and that you were now secreted somewhere in the house. But, I added, after hearing what you were subjected to at Petworth, I had no intention of encouraging you to return. 

There was more bluster from Lady Bolingbroke after that, and the long and the short of it was that I told her that you—and I--would need time to reflect. At least another day. Until then, it would behoove both of us not to speak of what had happened, and if anyone were to ask we would say that you had been taken with a mild fever and were recovering in your mother's care.

So I have bought you time, dear daughter, but not much. You really must return home. There is more, much more to speak of, but I cannot write it here. I will reveal all if you will only return.

Your mother, 

Margaret

~Postscript~

I wonder now if I am a fool to think that a letter thrown into the fireplace with a handful of sage and careful concentration on the bond between us will, in fact, reach you, or if all of the tricks I once knew are useless now. I suppose I shall find out soon enough.

Or perhaps I will never know, if you do not reply. I think, though, that you would not be so cruel as to ignore my letter, even if you have decided to remain where you are. 

But if I am only ever to receive one reply from you, I beg of you:...tell me if, where you are, there is one called Aiara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for all the comments, I'm sorry I can't respond to them all! It's a hectic time but rest assured this story is still being worked on and it will get finished.


	27. Chapter 27

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO THE RT. HON. MARGARET WILLIAMS

* * *

Dear Mother,

Not so long ago I learned that the world was not what I had always thought it was. Since then I have witnessed things that I could never have imagined, things that have upended everything I once believed and trusted in.

But none of that compares to the sight of a letter popping out of a bedroom fireplace in this castle, and discovering that it had been sent by you.

It would seem that you have a great deal to tell me. And I desperately wish to hear it. But I do not know if I can return to that world.

Surely you can understand why, knowing what you now know of the circumstances under which I left the Bolingbroke family. Would you see your daughter literally caged indefinitely? Would you see her shackled to a family that only wishes not to see their son's shattered spirit, and that would go to such strange and extraordinary lengths for the purpose of maintaining appearances?

Or would you have your daughter know happiness, the kind that, tragically, it seems you have never known?

(But it seems that perhaps you have, long ago.)

I do not know how much time has passed since I left that locked room. Time moves differently here. I think it cannot have been more than a few days, but it may have been much longer. Night and day blend into one another. I sleep when I am tired (which isn't often) and eat when I am hungry. 

The environment seems to shift according to my will…or perhaps it is the will of the one who brought me here. Winter and summer in a day, wind and stillness in a moment. Some of it seems beyond my control, but often when I wish that the wind would stop, it does. 

(You are correct that I chose to come. No one stole me. How was it with you, I wonder? For it is clear that you have been here as well. I think you also chose, in a time when you had choices.) 

I am sorry, truly sorry, for whatever pain and frustration my absence will cause to you and the Bolingbrokes (or at least to Roger, who is a good man, if not a man who will ever love me as a wife). I do not know that I will stay where I am forever, but…I need at least a while longer.

So much is new. There is so much more to see, taste, and feel…

Yours,

Sarah

~Postscript~ There is no one here called Aiara. But this world is vast, and those who live here seem to move between the corners of it as if distance were nothing. I will say the name to those who might know better than me. 


	28. Chapter 28

THE RT. HON. MARGARET WILLIAMS TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

Sarah,

I realize I have little right to demand anything of you, not only because you are now a woman married, but because I was not much of a mother, though I wish I had been more to you. The fire in me was extinguished early, and I fear I had no warmth left to give after you and Tobias were born.

So I will not now demand, only beg. Please come home.

If not for yourself, for your brother and I. Your father, as you may have by now surmised, is not a kind man. Nor is he a man who looks forgivingly on anything that might further tarnish his reputation. Or worse, make him seem weak.

He is capable of truly frightening things when tested. As yet he is still away from the house and unaware of your absence, but neither of those things may be true in a short time.

I do not ask you to return permanently. But there are things that must be resolved here, careful decisions to be made. And there is my safety, and Tobias’ safety to consider.

I am sure you think me desperate or hysterical to paint such a grim picture of what should happen were you never to return. And you would be right that I am desperate.

But I am also telling the truth. 

You need not fear ill treatment from Lady Bolingbroke. Trust me in this, I will see to it.

Please. Come home.

Your mother, 

Margaret


	29. Chapter 29

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

 _Mon cœur_,

It pains me that our last words together were spoken in anger.

But you forget that I am not yours to command, king though you may be. And that surely, as you yourself have said, you would not be so fond of me were I a meek and obedient maiden. 

Surely you realize how difficult it was for me to leave, even temporarily? After everything that you showed me of how my life could be…and everything I showed you of who I was?

Surely you do not think that my heart is so fickle as to find itself consumed with you in one moment, and then indifferent to you in the next?

I suspect you know all of this to be true, despite what you said when I departed. But you might also need reminding.

It seems only a few days passed in this world while I was with you. I do not know how much time passed for us, only that it felt both languid and far too brief. A sort of eternal dusk, though I know that some of the most memorable things happened at night.

Here in my world, much has happened. Far too much, I think, to put into a single letter.

I should tell you of what I learned about Aiara from my mother, and of just why our faerie tree was cut down and the ground beneath it poisoned, and of what she fears from my father. I think you should also know what has happened to Roger, though I know that you turn you nose up slightly (with reason, I realize, even though there is nothing between us) whenever his name is mentioned. 

But I find that all I want to write about is our time together, perhaps as a way of preserving the memories in amber, or easing the pain that I already feel to be away from you.

(I am wary of writing even those words, for fear that you will think me an over-eager chit, and knowing how badly you are wanted will tarnish the gleam of your ardor. But I find I cannot hold back, likely because I was made to hold everything within for so many years.)

Perhaps I should remind you of all the things I now think on fondly at night to ease the ache in my body, a body that was once content on its own but now feels strangely bereft without the constant feel of yours near it.

You are likely not interested in hearing of the time immediately after I arrived, when we danced around each other in the rooms and halls of your castle, and I spent much of my time with my friends exploring the kingdom. You were impatient, I am sure, and I was, in fact, eager, but knowing you in letters and being in your presence were two very different things, I discovered. I found that I could not be near you for long before I began to blush and imagine all manner of untoward things, and it seemed as though you could see into my mind (as perhaps you can), and I fear that the shackles of my convent education rather tightened in those moments, making me feel shame. 

But the shackles loosened in time.

Strangely, what may have helped more than anything was being allowed to wear trousers.

I had arrived, of course, in my many layers of stays and shifts and petticoats, and within a day of wandering the castle and the kingdom I saw that such clothing was ill-suited to your world. And as you had given me a room of my own, I opened the armoire to find it filled with all manner of clothing—gowns, to be sure, but also tunics and leggings of soft leather. And that was what I chose, soft brown leggings and a cream-colored tunic that hugged me slightly, and when I looked in the mirror I was almost as shocked as when I had beheld my own naked body, because I had never seen myself _with clothes on_ and yet so revealed. 

I confess in that moment my first thought was of how you might look on me, and if my appearance might meet with your favor. 

Something shifted in my body then, and I moved about the castle with a lighter step, the troubles in my world seeming further and further away. 

I wondered, then, why you left me so often on my own, or with my friends. Sometimes I would catch you watching me from a distance and would long for you to approach me, but you did not. For a fleeting moment I thought that, enamored as you seemed in letters, you were indifferent in person. But somehow I knew that you were waiting for me to come to you, that this must be a thing that began with me.

And in time I did come to you.

I found you in one of many of the castle's mysterious rooms that I was likely to never find again without your guidance, down a twisting hall and up and down multiple twisting staircases. I found you there looking at a massive collection of art and sculpture, and for a while I was content just to look as well, enjoying the silence of being in your presence. Though you said much in letters, in person you were quieter.

The art was like nothing I had ever seen in books or brief trips to museums in London. Bodies seemed to jump from the canvases, some human, some animal, some a merging of the two. You noticed me staring at one of a group of human-like people draped in leaves and flowers (and little else) all standing around a massive tree. I could feel your eyes traveling over me as as I looked at it.

 _The spring blessing_ , you finally said. _A tradition carried out for thousands of years_. A small chuckle. _The blessing is all well and good, but what comes after is much more fun._

I breathed deep, still not looking at you. _And what comes after?_

I could feel you moving closer. _General revelry, followed by debauchery, with a dash of mischief._

I finally turned to look at you then, and my breath caught.

I had, of course, seen you many times before that moment, but I do not think I had truly _looked_ , had not truly let my eyes linger. Your skin had a slight gleam to it in the light that came through the large window, making the sharp angles of your face all the clearer. You wore leggins that were similar to mine, black instead of brown, and a loose black shirt with a grey cape. I stood there for a moment and simply breathed you in.

 _You smell like the night_ , I finally whispered, and then I blushed, thinking it a silly thing to say.

But you only smiled and reached out a hand to run it over my cheek and down my neck. _You look like the dawn_ , you said.

I closed my eyes when you touched me. _I…don't know what happens now_ , I said. 

_Truly? I thought I gave you quite the primer on this sort of encounter, even if you were not able to make use of it._

I laughed. _But now my heart beats so quickly I remember none of it._

You stepped only a little closer, as though waiting for me to run away. _What is it that you want now, dearest? However silly it might sound._

I cleared my throat and tried to remember the courage I knew I possessed. _I want…to know what you think of me, in these clothes._

You smiled. _I think that I enjoyed the sight of you in a gown, but I love seeing you so revealed in these._ You reached down to touch the leggings. _And I enjoy the lightness in your step, and the way certain parts of you bounce as you move._

I smiled to imagine you watching me so carefully. You took my hand. _And what do you want now?_ you asked.

I looked at my smaller hand in your larger one. _Is this how it happens, then? Questions and answers?_

Your fingers made smooth motions over the back of my hand, and I felt soothed. _It is how it happens for us, and that is all that matters._

I made myself look at you then, without blushing or trembling. _I want you to kiss me_ , I said. _And…I do not want you to be gentle._

You smiled, and I liked the look of hunger on your face. _Are you sure?_

 _Yes_.

And then before the word was completely out of my mouth I was in your arms, and you were kissing me the way you had so beautifully described in your letters, but oh, you were right, words could not do it justice. We were both hungry, so hungry, and I remember that first taste of you, your tongue pushing into my mouth and opening me, opening every part of me, and you gripped me so tightly that I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, because none of this was forced upon me as it might have been in my world.

I remember pulling at your shirt and kissing my way down your neck to your chest, and you laughed at me, but not unkindly. _I think you would devour me, precious thing_ , you whispered between kisses. 

I licked at your neck, as if in agreement. _I want to see you_ , I gasped. _All of you_.

You took a step back and quickly removed your cape and shirt. _Only if you soon return the favor_ , you said. 

I glanced toward the open door of the room, suddenly concerned about interrupting goblins. _Should we—_

You flicked your wrist and the door closed and locked.

And then you were there in front of me, completely revealed, and I felt compelled to divine everything about your body, as one might study a book or a puzzle. I touched the center of your chest and the hard lines leading down to your stomach.

I pushed your hands away when you made to touch me. _Hold still_ , I whispered. _I want to know all of you._

You laughed again. _As my lady commands._

And then I touched and tasted as much of you as I could with my hands and mouth, from the slender curve of your arms to the hard ridge of your hips to the firm muscles of your back…and then surely you remember the way I hesitated at that part of you that had grown so hard under my touch, brushing my fingers over it as though it might burn me…

And then I think you could restrain yourself no more, for you growled at me like an animal and pushed me up against the wall, your body pressed tight against mine, that hard part of you pressing between my legs in a way that made me slick with need…

 _I believe that's enough questions and answers, dearest_ , you whispered in my ear, your hands (so hot) moving under my tunic and slipping into my leggings. _Shall I tell you what I'm going to do you?_

I might have managed a _yes_ in response.

 _First I’m going to see, touch, and taste every part of you as you've explored me. My mouth, in particular, is going to spend a great deal of time here_ , and your fingers found that hot ache between my legs, and I moaned. _And then I’m going to fill that desperately wanting part of you so delightfully full, perhaps first with my fingers and tongue, and then with—_

I think I stopped you with a kiss then, and soon I was as revealed as you, and everything after that was frenzied and dizzying. I remember the thrill of feeling you inside me, and I think there was pain, but only for a moment, and you asked me if you should stop, and I said _no, only slower for a moment_ , and you did as I asked, and then the pain was only an ache mixed with pleasure that I wanted to keep feeling for as long as possible…

Do you remember it all as clearly as I do?

Later we would take our time, and there would be more laughter, more games with words, and we would show each other things that we liked, and lie together afterward somewhere between sleep and waking. Those times, too, I cherished.

But that first time…that is what I will probably remember most clearly. 

Take these memories, _mon cœur._ Let them be my gift to you so that you will not think ill of me for leaving.

There is more to tell, of course, and I will tell it, but only write to me, and tell me that you are not angry, or at least that you understand why I had to leave. Even a brief word would be welcome. 

Yours,

Sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, thanks for your patience! There's still a lot of plot to wade through, but I wanted to get some smut in there first.


	30. Chapter 30

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

Jareth,

A week and still no word. Have I truly hurt you so much? Or do you keep silence out of anger? 

I do wish that you would write only a brief word to put my heart at ease, _mon cœur_. This is the longest we have gone without correspondence, and I feel adrift without your words.

In the meantime, though, I will give you words of my own, for much has happened. So much of it is painful and strange to speak of that I think I shall frame it as a story, perhaps one similar to the novels that I so enjoyed at the convent. Thinking of it as a story will, I hope, help to ease my troubled mind.

We begin with the story of an ax and poison.

I was fortunate that whatever magics allowed me to return to my world deposited me near the gates of my own family estate, and not near to Petworth, for I was not quite ready to return to Lady Bolingbroke. Fortunate also that my father still had not returned. Only poor Abigail and our stableboy were there to witness my rather undignified return, for it was raining, and the cumbersome petticoats that I had changed back into were soon completely sodden and covered in mud by the time I reached the front door. 

When Mother saw me she almost wept, but I hushed her and told her that I was well, that all would be well, and she bade Abigail run a bath for me. Later, when I was dressed in fresh clothing, sipping a cup of tea, and eating a plate of my favorite scones and jams, she wasted no time.

“Who were you with?” she asked.

I saw no reason to dissimulate, and told her everything (though naturally I omitted certain details). She did not seem shocked, only resigned, and perhaps a bit wistful, if I am being truthful. She asked me to describe your world, and as I did she listened as one who is recalling childhood memories, not questioning any of the truly unbelievable things I described.

“Who is Aiara, and why did Father cut down our tree?” I finally asked her, just as directly. 

She was silent for a long time. “I must know if you truly wish to know the truth of this,” she said finally, “for once the words are said, they cannot be unsaid, and you may look on many things differently after.”

I told her that yes, I wished to know the truth, and that I knew something of the power of words. 

She then began her story.

She told me that some men are driven by money, some by lust, but that my father had always been driven by a sense of _ownership_. That which he did not own, he wished to. That which he felt he did own, he would do anything to keep. 

“Sadly,” she said, “when I was sixteen he decided that he must claim ownership of _me_.”

Mother said that she was hardly a desirable match for Robert Williams, and heard rumors that his parents had tried to dissuade him. But he wanted her, perhaps simply because she did not want him, and he could not bear the thought of a thing he pursued being out of his reach. Her own parents were overjoyed at the thought of such a good match and ultimately persuaded her, baffled as to why she would resist.

They did not know, of course, that she already had a lover.

Here my mother's voice grew soft, her eyes far away, and I ached for her when I saw the longing in them. “Aiara was life itself,” she said. “She was a wood sprite, bound to the trees and the earth. She took many forms, but when we were together she was my size, with skin the color of earth and leaves and vines twisted through her limbs and her hair. She first came to me when I was thirteen, and brought me into her world, where I saw wonders I never could have imagined. And over time I fell in love with her and dreamed of running away.

“But I grew older, and my world's shackles tightened, and though I still saw Aiara in secret I knew that what we had would only ever be fleeting and stolen. But I hoped I could continue to have this secret, even if I obeyed my parents in all other things. 

“When my marriage to your father was confirmed and I first set eyes on our this estate I was thrilled to see a faerie tree, for Aiara had long ago explained to me that such trees made it easier for her to move between worlds, that they were like extensions of her own spirit and body. I took comfort in knowing that I would have this secret space in the midst of so much that was frightening and unfamiliar.

“And it was indeed a blessing, for I had entered a world that was unimaginably cruel. 

“No sooner had I crossed the threshold after our wedding than your father told me that I was to obey him in all things, that everything I ate, wore, and spoke would be of his choosing, and that I was never to leave the grounds of the Williams estate without his permission. If I went against his wishes, he said, he would bring violence upon the people or things that I loved, and in a way that no suspicion would fall on him. 

“I was struck dumb by his words. I think I laughed, sure that he must be speaking in jest. I told him that I would of course strive to be a good wife to him in all ways, but I saw no reason why I should be treated as a prisoner in my own home, particularly when I had done nothing to arouse suspicion or ill will.

“He did not laugh. He only stared at me and fingered the pearl buttons of his waistcoat, almost as if he were speaking of the weather.”

“By all means, test me,” he said. “It will not go well for you.”

(I was equally struck dumb by my mother’s words. I had known my father to be a hard man, and a distant one, and knowing that he had cut down the faerie tree made me realize that he was cruel. But hearing my mother describe his words...it chilled me. I felt a mixture of both fear and rage.)

My mother continued. “In time I began to believe that he was true to his word. The servants feared him. We had few visitors save his own family. He rarely smiled, and when he did it looked more like a sneer. When I sat across from him at dinner and watched him cut his pheasant with a knife I began to believe, without doubt, that he could just as easily drive that knife through a human heart, smiling all the while. 

“But still I sought out Aiara, for I could not stay away. She was light and warmth where I had been consigned to a life of eternal darkness and cold. Luckily your father never followed me in my excursions to the faerie tree, perhaps believing that nothing untoward could happen in a realm that he had absolute control over. 

“He came to my bed infrequently, and each time he seemed to find no joy in the act, and looked at me with distaste if I seemed to take pleasure in any of it. I had not been led to expect passion, or even warmth, but that eternal sneer…that haunted me. It was so different with Aiara…”

(Here my mother seemed to remember that she was speaking to her daughter and blushed mightily, apologizing for forgetting herself. I told her not to worry, and while I did not give a detailed account [for fear of sending her into a faint], I assured her that I knew something of relations between men and women now.)

My mother continued. “Aiara begged me to leave my world and live in hers, but I feared what Robert would do to those I loved if I should leave. By then I had given birth to you, and it seemed cruel to spirit you away to an alien realm, and I felt the same when Tobias was born. But at least magic was in my life, if only for fleeting moments.

“But then your father found out about Aiara, and everything was ruined.

“I do not know if he overheard servant gossip, or if he followed me on one of my excursions. All I know is that my parents paid us an unexpected visit one afternoon. We drank tea in the drawing room, and they seemed…concerned. They finally confessed that Robert had written to them because I was behaving ‘unusually.’ They seemed deeply embarrassed by the entire situation.

“I had not, in fact, been behaving unusually at all--I had grown quite adept at meekness. I stared across the divan at Robert, wondering what game he was playing at. Flustered, I asked if I could speak to him a moment in private. When we were out of earshot of my parents, he produced a small vial of clear liquid from his jacket pocket.”

“I warned you,” he said quietly. 

My heart went cold. “Warned me about what?”

He rolled the vial between his fingers. “That if you ever went against my wishes, it would not go well for you, or those you love.”

I gasped. “Did you—“

“Not yet. But I could slip this into their drinks easily. Any time they come to visit. I could do the same to Tobias. Or Sarah. And you would be blamed for it.” 

“I’ll warn them—“

“Oh, will you? Do you care to live out the rest of your days in a London sanitarium? Because I have, I believe, thoroughly convinced your parents that you are not right in the head, and that anything you say should be greeted with suspicion. Do try.” His smile was cold. “I believe you will find that I was quite convincing.”

He put the vial back in his jacket pocket and made to return to the drawing room. “You will never see that girl—that THING—again, he said. You belong to me, and me alone.”

“I thought the threat to my parents, and the fact that they would now never trust anything I said, would be punishment enough. But no, your father was not finished. 

“I woke the next morning to the sound of commotion on the grounds, and quickly dressed and journeyed outside to discover that a crowd had gathered around around our faerie tree. 

“There was a man with an ax. He looked terrified. 

“I begged Robert to stop. I told him that this act would haunt our family for generations, that I would do whatever he asked of me.

“You forgot who owns you,” he said. “This”—he grabbed my hair—“this”—he pinched my neck—“were never yours to share with others. You forgot…but now you will remember.”

“And he ordered the tree cut down, and the ground beneath it saturated with some sort of foul-smelling liquid. 

“I was never even able to say good-bye to Aiara. I feared that if I tried to reach her in any way Robert might do something even more heinous. I wept to think that she might be dead, that, given her connection to all faerie trees, this act of violence would be as an act against her own body."

Mother was silent for a long time, gazing at her folded hands in her lap. “Whether Aiara still lives or not, a part of me died that day.” 

I sat stunned with this new knowledge, both of what my mother had known and of who my father was. Finally she reached out and took my hand in hers.

“I can see that you have found what I wanted but could not have in that world. And I am glad for you. But you must tread carefully. He could…I no longer know what he is capable of. I ask only that you take some time. Make a careful plan. If not for me, then for Tobias.”

_Mon cœur_ , do you now see the impossible situation I find myself in? 

Of course I told my mother that I would not do anything to endager her or Tobias. But I also cannot bear to be parted from you. I must take time to plan. And perhaps you can help me to plan, or for the time being, at least tell me if you know something of this Aiara, and if she lives, if only to give comfort to my mother's much-pierced heart. 

This letter goes on long, and I have not even told you of what has happened since I returned to Petworth (just before my father returned home, we pray none the wiser about my disappearance and absence). I will leave that for another letter.

But suffice it to say that Roger has returned. 

Yours, 

Sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a Gothic romance without a bit of cruelty and suffering! Thank you for your patience, more chapters soon, the end of the year is a crazy time and the stress has been getting to me a bit more than usual.


	31. Chapter 31

H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE

* * *

Sarah,

It seems I am doomed to forever be an intermediary between you and others. You might think it an affront to my royal dignity, but then you would be forgetting that my subjects have on occasion seen fit to make me a crown of sausages. And demand that I wear it until I threaten to toss each of them in the bog. 

Regardless of how it may impact my dignity (really, not at all), I enclose a letter in this missive from Aiara to your mother.

She is alive, as you might have guessed. The state of the forest where she has long made her home—sadly withered and barely holding to life--is perhaps now explained by the heartbreak she experienced. 

I felt it important to convey this information to you.

And also to tell you that, though no one could shackle you in your world or this one, you are _mine_. Utterly mine. Your words on a page are mine to relish, your mouth mine to devour, your pleasure mine to wrest from your body.

And though that very ordinary and even-tempered creature be your husband in the eyes of mortal law, I would not share you with him. 

Strangely, I find that my quill keeps moving, though I had intended to end this letter here. Again, it is likely a reflection of the intense boredom that my subjects frequently inspire, and the lack of festivities or nearby revelries to occupy my mind.

It has nothing to do with need. 

You speak of feeling bereft and adrift, and of an ache that your body feels without mine near it. I would tell you that I feel the same, but that would be a lie.

Because what I mostly feel is rage.

Not rage at you, per se, though your vivid description of our time together, coming to me in a time when I cannot touch or smell or taste you and the scent of you is gradually fading from my own clothing and skin, was certainly enough to induce strong feelings. Rather, I rage at the quiet and the stillness, which once gave me comfort, but now seem a hollow thing. I rage at the silence that I used to savor, because it is a silence without your laughter and jibes.

What have you done? What witchery is this that has transformed my home? 

I also regret that our last words to each other were spoken in anger, though surely you can see why I was put out by your decision. What have your mortal connections brought you but pain? Even if you wished no harm to come to your mother and brother, how long could you really hope to hold out against the forces that would crush all of you? Why not simply stay here, with me, where everything could be simple? 

I could even make you forget all about them, if you wanted. I somehow suspect your mother would want this for you. Perhaps even the inconsequential bit of drabness who calls himself your husband would not forsake you this happiness. 

But no, you saw fit to leave, and now the castle that was never before feels empty. You truly can be so cruel.

But so can I, of a type.

I believe I should remind you more of what took place while you were here. I could say I write the words to soothe you, or give you sweet dreams, but that would also be a lie. I want your sleep fitful and your dreams full of me. I want you to lie awake with your hands roaming over your body but also frustrated that they are nothing like my hands or mouth, that whatever pleasure you give yourself, sweet though it may be, is not the pleasure of my body entwined with yours.

You say that you do not wish to dwell on how you first appeared when you arrived, but I find I cannot forget. What a wild thing you were! When you appeared in my throne room you were covered and bound and beribboned in the odd manner of mortalkind, your eyes darting this way and that, your face flushed. I stared at you for a long time, for as you spoke of the difference between knowing you in letters and seeing you in person, so it was with me. 

In person you were smaller but also somehow larger than I remembered, or perhaps it was only that your presence filled the rooms. I had, thankfully, thought to send the goblins off on some fool’s errand before I spirited you to the castle, so we at least did not have to trouble ourselves with their gawks and caterwauling. I was free to look on you as long as I wished, and feel the air around you shiver as if alive. 

When you first looked at me, you wept.

I had a moment's hesitation, wondering if this was yet another instance of your saying something but not meaning it, but no, you did not run from me, you only shook and sobbed, perhaps overwhelmed with the strangeness of it all. And I knew not what to do at first, for though I felt that you no longer saw me as an enemy, I could not truly believe that you would see me as a comforter.

But I moved to your side and pulled you against me, and you did not resist.

And then suddenly, as though in a trance, you kissed me.

Though I was not _truly_ shocked—I am, after all, skilled at kissing, and I can imagine that you had been eager to see if the words on the page were a match to the actual experience—I could not allow you to continue in such a state, and much as I wished to immediately put my mouth everywhere on your body, I gently pushed you away and told you that you were not yourself, and that you should rest.

And then I saw what your anger looked like.

You screamed at me that you were not a child, and that everyone should stop treating you like a child, and you were tired of having decisions made for you. And I said that I was not making a decision for _you_ , but for _myself_ , because I could take no pleasure in a coupling that you might regret. And there were barbs traded back and forth for some time, but in the end I won (because I always win), but also because you were weary and I believe that you knew that in this, at least, I was right. 

So I left you to gather yourself, and to explore the castle and the world around it on your own, waiting for you to come to me.

It was agony, that waiting. So many times I imagined you thrillingly revealed, imagined what your skin would feel like against mine, imagined you whispering to me the things you had so clearly written in your letters, and whispering back things that would both shock you and make you desire me even more. But I have known many years, and if I know how to do anything, I know how to wait. 

But oh, what a thing it was to see you dressed in leggings and a tunic, covered and yet revealed, as you yourself described. I am also particularly inclined to let my mind linger over that first encounter, the bold way that you explored me, but also the moment that you let me take control and show you all the things I’d only written about before.

At night I sometimes think of the hard ridge of your hip and the way it felt against my cheek as I kissed my way down your delightfully soft and smooth stomach, finding more softness in the curls between your legs, and the way your eyes widened and then closed when I slipped my tongue into that delightful sweetness that I cannot wait to taste again, and again. The way you gripped my hair and called out my name when you shuddered around my mouth. 

I remember also that night when you said that you did not want to sleep, and you cursed your mortal body’s need for it. And so I gave you a few drops of an amber liquid that made your eyes grow large for a moment…and then you attacked me with such stamina that I regretted that this particular elixir should not be consumed regularly by mortals, lest it burn through your heart and veins. But oh, what a joy it was to look up at you on top of me, feeling myself deep inside you, your hair and breasts bouncing wildly, taking your pleasure as you would, and then later eagerly taking me in your mouth like a starving girl, devouring me with almost as much zeal as I had devoured you. Your eyes looking up at me as your tongue and lips moved slowly, deliberately, then faster, relishing the moment when I lost control and called out your name. 

Are those other memories somewhat clearer to you now, _ma chérie_? 

Forgive me if I have shattered the calm of your mundane mortal existence with these reminiscences. But truly, when you send such enticements, expect to receive them in return. 

I hope they at least serve as a reminder that your life here would be ever more pleasurable than whatever you could find in the mortal world. And really, this strange situation I now find myself in, of feeling an emptiness where there was none before, is one that you should feel obligated to rectify as soon as possible, I should think. 

Sweet dreams.

Yours,

J.

~Postscript~

You are mine. Mine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Anxiety gets the better of me sometimes, and it's been a rough year on that front, but things are better now. Figured we all could use a little bit of smut and smugness.


	32. Chapter 32

VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE TO H.R.H. JARETH, GOBLIN KING

* * *

 _Mon_ _cœur_ ,

Well. I see that if I seek to go toe to toe with you in bold correspondence, I had best be prepared for a swift and skillful counterattack.

I can see your smug expression in my mind when I tell you quite truthfully that I did not sleep well last night after reading and rereading your letter, though the sleeplessness was of a most enjoyable kind. You do paint a vivid picture, perhaps even more vivid than the one I already had in my mind. 

I thank you sincerely for passing along Aiara’s letter, which I will in turn pass along to my mother when she visits tomorrow. Though you may think it beneath your station to act as messenger, I assure you that your efforts do not go unappreciated. My mother has been gifted so little joy in life, and it warms me to think that she might finally have a loving word from the only one to ever return her romantic affections. 

As I wrote in my previous letter, I have returned to Petworth, though I was initially quite resistant to do so. I was shocked (and pleased, if I must admit it) to find Lady Bolingbroke utterly contrite, and even fearful, when I returned. But before I left my home Mother had reassured me that I should never again be forced into the horrific situation I had found myself in before I wished myself away to you. When I asked how she could guarantee such a thing, she would not elaborate fully, but hinted that she had some sort of knowledge of a scandal involving Lady Bolingbroke and Roger’s parentage, and that she might even have *proof* of said scandal, and that she had made it clear to Lady Bolingbroke that it would be wise to tread lightly. And her words seem to have had the desired effect, at least for now, for the Lady now bends to me like a reed in a gentle wind. 

And yes, Roger has returned.

It seems he was injured on the battlefield, but thankfully only enough to be relieved of his duties and not enough to be impaired for life, or in any danger of death. He is much as he was when he left me after our very brief honeymoon—quiet, distant, and seemingly unable to meet my eyes. He walks with a slight limp. 

Truly, what broke my heart for him was his parents’ reception when he arrived. His mother kissed him quite perfunctorily on both cheeks, while his father said nothing. They almost seemed unhappy that he had returned.

When we were alone together in our bedroom I wasted no time in telling him of everything that had transpired—I am generally weary of secrets, and I somehow felt that I could trust Roger not to betray my confidence. I kept my voice low because I was fairly certain that Lady Bolingbroke was listening at the door.

Roger seemed dismayed but not shocked to hear of what his mother had done, and apologized on her behalf. And then, keeping my voice quite a bit lower, I told him of you, and the time I had spent in your world, and what you are to me.

I thought that he might call me hysterical, or simply refuse to believe my words, but while his eyes grew wider as I spoke, in the end he simply acknowledged the truth of what I had said, and told me he was happy that another was filling a role that he could not.

“I have seen truly unbelievable things on the battlefield,” he said to me. “It is not so hard to imagine that everything you have told me could be true.”

I told him more of the wonders that I had seen in your world, the many rooms of the castle and the field full of fireflies (though not what we did there), and his face seemed to take on a hopeful cast. Like me, I think he has often felt trapped in this world, and I begin to wonder if he might be better suited to yours...

Rest assured, though, that if you ever have cause to be jealous where I am concerned, your jealousy need not be directed toward Roger. Even if we are to share the same bed (and I believe he will insist on sleeping on the bedroom's divan, or perhaps in one of the other bedrooms), we would do so more as brother and sister than as husband and wife.

I suppose I should feel put out by your use of words such as “mine” to describe me, and the ownership you claim over my pleasure and my person, but...I cannot. Truthfully, it makes my heart beat faster to think of myself as yours, and to think of the determined gleam in your eye that would fall on any competitor for my affections. Perhaps it owes to the fact that others who have tried to own me have truly taken away what little freedom I had, whereas you have not. 

You know, of course, that you are also _mine_ , and I claim you every bit as strongly as I now claim my own flesh and words. Your smiles are mine to draw out, the heat in your glances mine to create. Your body that I have so greedily tasted and caressed is mine to embrace, mine to dream of in great detail on these nights alone with only my fingers and my own breath for company…

I must find a way back to you, I know. And I must also keep my mother and Tobias safe, and must also care for Roger, to the extent that I can. And I think I begin to see how all these things might be possible.

  
I pray you do not deny me what I will ask of you, _mon_ _cœur_.

Yours, 

Sarah 

* * *

Addendum, Albert Bingham to Jacob Dorchester: This is the last letter in the pile. The young servant who delivered the package (and who did not wish to be named, only to receive coin) has not returned, and we have no means of contacting her, as we do not know whether she is employed in the Bolingbroke or Williams estates, or neither (further, I believe that she may be illiterate and unaware of the exact nature of what she delivered to us, knowing only that it might be of value). Though I suppose absconding with Lady Bolingbroke’s correspondence would have been simple enough, I am curious as to how she came to possess the letters of this "goblin king.” Given that I am not inclined to believe in village superstitions about the fair folk, I do wonder if these letters are all an elaborate ruse, with the hushed and furtive delivery by the illiterate servant merely serving as a theatrical flourish. 

Fiction or no, we have received correspondence from Lady Williams urging us not to publish (including a rather unsubtle threat, though such bluster is par for the course in our industry when anything is soon to be published that might reflect poorly on its subjects). I myself have no genuine fear of retribution from the Williams estate (and really, the Bolingbrokes have enough skeletons in their closet to be wary of making similar threats). However, this final letter leaves things rather…unsatisfying, to say the least. And now that Lady Williams has been alerted to our possession of the letters, I doubt the authors will be so careless with their correspondences in the future.

I await your thoughts on how to proceed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your patience! Eek, certain plot points have been a challenge for me to resolve, but after multiple rewrites I think I'm getting there. Hopefully done in four or five more chapters!


	33. Chapter 33

GOBLIN KINGDOM ARCHIVE: PROCLAMATION REGARDING THE PENALTY FOR THEFT, TO BE READ ALOUD BEFORE ALL SUBJECTS, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY

* * *

  
My subjects.

It has come to my attention that there are thieves among us.

Truly, I have always known that there were louts, ignoramuses, layabouts, and scoundrels among us (I myself have been called at least one of those things). But thievery of items belonging to your _king_? This was unheard of, until now.

I do not know which of you was clever enough, likely with the help of a mortal, to secret yourself into my bedchamber and abscond with a very private collection of letters. But rest assured that I will find out. And when I do, that unfortunate creature will not see the outside of a dungeon wall for a long time to come.

And to any others who might have similarly self-destructive tendencies, be assured that there are fresh wards surrounding all of the entrances to my bedchamber, and anyone who is so foolish as to try to breach them will find themselves transformed into a shrub. Or stricken with a particularly violent and long-lasting case of the pox. However the ward’s mood might sway in that moment. 

Really, I should drown all of you in the bog right this instant. The thought of rebuke and tears of pity from a certain mortal woman are all that give me pause. 

Do not test my mercy in this matter. 


	34. Chapter 34

AUCTION ITEM #2, PETWORTH ESTATE: LETTER OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN ADDRESSED TO VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE, ENVELOPE INCLUDED, NO WAX SEAL

* * *

My Ladye,

I prey you forgiv my wryting, I hav askt my cousin Rupert to pen this lettr as I cannot reed or wryt. I only wishe to say sorrye. So very sorrye. 

It were I who took yor lettrs. I had much need of coyn for my mothers helth, she is poorlie, and yor father wud not give me an advance. And ther are those in th villej who wud seek to harm yor father for his cutting of th tree, and they toled me of the publishing howse.

You was always kind to me, yor mother too. I never ment to hurt you, but I needed coyn for my own mother lest she nott dye. I prey you and the Lord forgiv me as wel.

You could all leave, iffen you wanted. Be away from him that's too cruel for all. I know the wurld of the fair folk, and hav for some tyme.

There be another faeri tree, differnt from the one he cut downe. Follo the roade that winds beyond your home estate, passed the river and oer the stone bridge. You wil see it.

Abigail


	35. Chapter 35

AUCTION ITEM #8, PETWORTH ESTATE: PAGES FROM A LADY’S DIARY, LIKELY VISCOUNTESS SARAH BOLINGBROKE, DATE UNKNOWN, FRAGMENTS ONLY

* * *

  
I should not be wasting time putting pen to paper when there is so much to be done, and decided, but I must quiet the thoughts that swirl in my mind, and writing to Jareth feels too dangerous now, knowing what we know.

Abigail. It was Abigail. 

Why? Why did she not simply come to me, if she needed coin?

Of course I know why. Because I have no control over anyone's money, and neither does my mother, and she was desperate.

I received her letter shortly after Mother paid me a visit at Petworth and told me in hushed tones of what she had learned about the letters and the publishing house. We were both frightened of what should happen if Father were to find out, and now we can only pray that Mother's strongly worded letter will have some effect. 

Jareth must know by now, though I am fearful of writing to him in this moment for fear that our letters might be intercepted. I also hope that he will not do anything rash, or that if he does it is only to somehow make the letters vanish from the publishers’ office and not to do harm to Abigail or whoever might have helped her in her thievery.

I was, at least, able to pass Aiara’s letter on to Mother. She took it like a delicate flower that might crumble in her hands, and I gave her a bit of distance in which to read it privately. I thought I heard little sobs as she read, and indeed when she had finished and returned to me her eyes were red, but she was smiling. 

She took my hands in hers. “What would you do, dearest?” she whispered. “If you could truly have what your heart desired, what would you do?”

When I told her, she looked not at all shocked by my words. She only nodded and squeezed my hands harder. 

“Soon,” she said. “We must act soon.”

* * *

By night. Surely it must be done by night. 

I fear that any hour now the trail of whispers will reach my father, and in his wrath he will confine my mother not only to the grounds of the family estate but to her room, or make good on his promise to commit her to an asylum—

* * *

—ther knows something. I am sure of it. Perhaps not about the letters and the publisher, but something.

He came to Petworth yesterday. I was shocked to see him—he had never visited me here before, and I immediately feared the worst. But no, he never mentioned the letters or the publisher.

I think, perhaps, that he simply wished to remind me of the power that he still has over my mother, and over me. 

“It is good to see that you are settled in well here,” he said to me. “Your mother had some…difficulties adjusting to the confines of married life. But I educated her, and she took to her lessons.”

It was difficult to hold my tongue and play at meekness while he smiled coldly at me. I did so only because I knew my very life and the lives of those I cared for might depend on it.

“It would seem that you have had no such difficulties,” he said. “Have you?”

Was he asking whether I had had a fae lover, as mother had? How much did he know?

I kept my smile meek and my eyes lowered. “I am grateful for the convent education that prepared me so well for life at Petworth, and to you and mother for sending me there,” I said quietly.

His gaze was pointed—did he see through my facade? But if he did he ultimately gave no indication of it and left with a few pleasantries.

We must move even more quickly than I th—.


	36. Chapter 36

AUCTION ITEM #32, WILLIAMS ESTATE: LETTER ADDRESSED TO THE RT. HON. ROBERT WILLIAMS, ORNATE WAX SEAL NO LONGER INTACT, ENVELOPE INCLUDED

* * *

  
Dear Robert,

I wonder if I am the only person who has ever addressed you by that name (other than your own parents, perhaps, or friends, though I cannot imagine you ever had many of those). But really, “right honorable” is so distant from who you are, and even “my Lord” has a hollow ring to it, for the peerage has no power in my world, and you are no Lord of mine.

How do you fare? It is customary, is it not, in mortal correspondence, to ask after the welfare of the recipient of one’s letter? 

Though perhaps it is not customary to follow the question with the sincere hope that you have been stricken with typhus, or consumption, or any of a number of maladies that seem to fell mortals with ease. Truly, I was tempted to find a way to infect you with something myself—preferably an ailment that would result in a large outbreak of pustules—but your former wife and daughter persuaded me that you were best left to rot in your indignant solitude.

I do wonder, though, how long the local folk left you imprisoned in the rain. Truly, that must have been a sight to behold.

I was not there to witness it, of course, but Sarah rather delighted in telling me the tale—she has a way of weaving words, as you might know (though sadly I fear that you do not know, for she was always beneath your notice, to your own detriment). She told me of how she, her mother, the plain-faced Roger, young Tobias, and her four-legged companion had journeyed by night to a neighboring faerie tree, wearing only the clothes on their backs and taking turns carrying Tobias as he slept. There had been a midnight rendezvous, and even a climb down from a window using sheets (I don't know that this was really necessary, but perhaps Sarah wanted a bit of adventure.) 

To skip to the end before elaborating on the delightful details of the middle, my kingdom now finds itself playing host to four mortals and a dog where I really would have preferred only one mortal. Or perhaps three. But I definitely would not have included Roger or the dog in the group. Still, it is rather impossible to refuse your daughter anything when she has set her mind to it, and if this is the price I must pay to have her with me, so be it.

It was a long journey in the night for them, but they were hardier than your world would ever think them to be, and they reached the faerie tree. But of course all did not go according to plan, because you were waiting for them in your carriage.

Perhaps a servant desperate for extra coin alerted you to their movements, or perhaps you are simply more intuitive than they realized. Regardless, they were caught unawares, and you seemed to think that your presence would simply cause them to shrink like violets and dutifully accompany you back home. And indeed, Sarah told me that when they first saw you, her mother did seem to momentarily shrink, and Sarah herself was frightened, for she had spent her life being frightened of you. 

But then Roger, surely to everyone's amazement, stepped in front of both women and the child and told them to go ahead without him, that he would hold you off, even if it meant he could not accompany them out of this world. You laughed cruelly at him and called him a weakling, but he stood firm and would not move when you advanced on the women and child behind him. 

And while I would never confess to Sarah that I feel anything but disdain for that creature who is her husband in name only, knowing that he would have died for her has perhaps lessened my disdain somewhat. 

And perhaps he could not have held you off. Perhaps you would have killed him and claimed to his parents that madness had overtaken him, and they would have believed you. But his presence allowed Sarah’s mother to go unnoticed behind him as she knelt down and pressed her hands upon the earth…

And oh, I would have given much to see what came next.

Longing is potent, perhaps even more potent than the potions and charms that others use in my world to change the shape of things. Perhaps even more potent than my own varieties of magic, if I can be momentarily humble. And your former wife’s longing, pressed into the earth like a divining rod, was enough to make the ground shake.

And then you were struck dumb (again, a sight I would love to have seen, though Sarah was kind enough to describe it to me in great detail multiple times) as roots and vines thrust up out of the ground and snaked themselves around your body, holding you firmly in place and pinning your arms to your sides so that you might not reach for whatever weapon you had brought with you. Your sputters of indignation were even stopped by a pair of stray vines that covered your mouth.

And then Aiara was there.

I am not prone to sentiment, particularly when it involves mortals whose lives are of little interest to me. But I must confess even I was moved when Sarah described the appearance of this mysterious _rusalka_ who had captured her mother’s heart so many years before. Her hair and body were mottled green and brown, leaves and vines covering her as clothing might. She had risen up out of the ground much like the vines that bound you, her eyes flashing in your direction.

When Sarah’s mother saw her she let out a little cry, and whatever pretenses of propriety she might have held on to vanished as she ran into Aiara’s arms and kissed her, and the two of them seemed to forget that the rest of the world existed, at least for that moment. 

(I am glad, I think, that you witnessed this. That you saw this woman whom you had treated with nothing but contempt suffused with joy, at least once. I do hope the image lingers.)

And soon after they were gone, and you were left alone at that tree, trussed up like a roasted fowl on a spit.

(Do not even consider cutting down that tree. You may have succeeded once, but my kind have had our eyes on you since then, and such an act would have truly dire consequences this time.)

How long did the villagers leave you there? Perhaps you are still there now. It warms my heart to imagine it.

Or perhaps you are back in the emptiness of your estate, accompanied only by the knowledge that everything you had ever sought to possess has been taken from you. 

I am tempted to twist the knife further by gently “encouraging” Mr. Dorchester and Mr. Bingham to publish that ill-gotten trove of letters, knowing how much it would infuriate you to become an item in the weekly scandal sheet. You will be relieved to know that your former wife and Sarah (perhaps unduly influenced by Roger) put me off of this idea, only because Roger does not wish ill will on his parents in the same way that Sarah and your former wife wish ill will upon you. 

And so the offices of Dorchester and Bingham will soon receive another envelope containing a very particular incantation that need only be viewed by mortal eyes to have its desired effect, and our dear publishers will suddenly lose all memory of those letters and see them only as rubbish to be burned in the fireplace. 

A shame, really. Part of me would like the world to know our story. But as usual, I can refuse Sarah nothing.

She has been quite frank since she arrived that she has no desire to marry me, at least not yet. Not due to a dearth of affection, she assures me, but only due to the fact that her first marriage was rather thrust upon her, and she found nothing romantic or joyful in the whole affair. This time, she tells me, _she_ would like to be the one to propose to _me_ , when she is ready.

I told her I rather liked the idea, and requested that she get down on one knee. Or perhaps plan some sort of elaborate ruse with the assistance of her friends.

Roger, thankfully, keeps to himself, though he has discovered a passion for gardening, and the dwarf who tends the grounds has grudgingly taken him on as a kind of apprentice. With the help of the dwarf and the goblin apothecaries Sarah has discovered tinctures and herbs that help him to quiet his mind. He might return to your world someday, I think (or perhaps I only hope). He seems to simply need time to heal away from it.

Your former wife we see seldom, if only because the _rusalka_ live some distance from my kingdom. But she writes, and her letters always bring a smile to Sarah’s face. When we do see her the color seems to have returned to her cheeks, and there is a lightness in her step when she gazes at Aiara, or when the latter reaches out a leaf-covered arm to caress her hair. 

Tobias divides his time between the world of the _rusalka_ and my kingdom, where the goblins are his eager playmates. I hope that he does not become too wild and uncouth in their company, but Sarah seems to have enough of a civilizing influence on him. 

The dog, thankfully, stays with your former wife and only visits when she does, though Sarah dotes on the creature whenever it is near.

We all got what we wanted, it seems. Except for you.

I imagine you are eager to write to me and make colorful threats to my person and my kingdom, but really, ours seems the sort of correspondence that should not continue beyond this letter.

I would pity you, if I were the sort of creature inclined toward pity, if only because you never truly knew your daughter, and now you never will. I wonder if she knows what a marvel she is, and how the light in her eyes makes a thousand years of my existence fall away.

I should tell her again, I think.

Sincerely, 

Jareth


	37. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

* * *

  
_Mon cœur,_

Is it silly of me to still address you in letters, when we have not spent more than a few hours away from each other for some time?

(I lose track of time here, as I suppose all mortals would, for the sun sometimes seems to go many days without setting, and then many days without rising. But it has been some time, I think.)

Perhaps some habits are difficult to break. Perhaps because long ago I once wrote to you in the guise of a figure from a romantic novel, and now I have, in a way, become that girl that I once dreamed of being.

Will you touch me again tonight, _mon_ _cœur_ , in that way that transports me momentarily out of my mortal body? And will you let me touch you and claim you as eagerly as you have claimed me?

I must have gained some newfound immortal strength from my time in this world, for I find that I do not want for sleep in the way that I once did. And I also find that I quite enjoy feeling you pressed up against and inside me when we are both standing, perhaps with a view out of one of the castle windows, or against a tree in the forest, when you lift me up easily and we move as one until you cry out every bit as loudly as I do.

Perhaps I write these letters still because I love to imagine your breath catching when you read them. You may be the one with magics, but I enjoy this little power that I can have over you.

Is it depraved of me to go on wanting you like this? If it is, so be it—I am grateful to no longer be beholden to the mortal world’s judgment. 

Write to me, _mon_ _cœur_ , and tell me what you would do to me in the night, or in the day, or whenever it takes your fancy. 

The waiting is sweet agony.

Yours eternal,

Sarah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you for going along on this journey with me.
> 
> I've been fascinated by epistolary stories for a long time, maybe since I read Griffin and Sabine as a child. That book had the added joy of actually including physical envelopes that you could open, with hand-written letters and postcards inside, which might have inspired the details at the end of this story about auction items and archived proclamations. This story also owes a lot to Dangerous Liaisons, Dracula, and Gothic romances like The Castle of Otranto, though I couldn't help ending things a little happier than typical Gothic romance often ends. 
> 
> It was also a fun challenge to see if I could convey everything secondhand (through letters and other documents). I might try that again in a modern setting. 
> 
> This story took a VERY different turn almost as soon as I started writing it, and it was a challenge to resolve the threads that I'd started as things shifted. As usual Jareth never seems to stay dark in my longer stories, and this one ended up being much longer than I'd planned. 
> 
> I agonized a bit over the identity of the "third party"--who exactly was meant to be reading all these letters and random bits of writing? The publishers, in the beginning, but what happens once Sarah & Jareth find out the letters have been stolen? In the end I just tried to wrap things up as best I could and focus on the narrative. No, it's probably not that realistic for Abigail to be able to get a hold of ALL of those letters, but I hope you'll forgive the occasional leaps in logic. 
> 
> Mainly I'm just happy that not only Sarah but her mother and Roger got happy endings. Ladies who love ladies need more happy endings in nineteenth century stories, and I also found that I couldn't just leave Roger behind.
> 
> Thanks as always for all your reviews and kudos / favorites, they've really meant the world to me!
> 
> ADDENDUM: Oh God I forgot about the dog! Edited to confirm that Tilly went with them, I wouldn't leave her behind as Robert would be likely to take out his frustrations on her, poor thing.
> 
> ADDENDUM 2: Seriously, thank you for all the comments, I'm sorry I haven't responded to all of them but it doesn't mean that they weren't seen and deeply appreciated!


End file.
